Bad Judgement
by stranded chess piece
Summary: What happens when the players end up being played? Hanson/Penhall/Booker. No slash. Set early S3.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi! This is my first 21-JS fic. Normally I write Supernatural but I need a bit of a break so I'm heading back to the 80's for some time out :)_

_This fic takes place early S3 when Booker is still new, but after Penhall returns. It mainly focuses on Hanson, Booker and Penhall, and if all goes to plan there'll be a good Tom-whumping and across the board angst. No slash though (sorry if that disappoints) Rated T just to be safe. Happy reading :)_

_Disclaimer: I don't own them._

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

Hanson slammed his car keys down upon his desk and whirled to face Booker. The taller man seemed far more interested in fixing himself a cup of coffee than listening to anything Hanson had to say, and proceeded to collect his mug from his desk and flip it upside-down over the trash, not even flinching as black sludge slid out.

Hanson's eyes went wide as new coffee was poured in over the swampy remnants of the old. Booker was dysfunctional; _completely _defective. How the hell had they ended up working this case together? He couldn't think of anything (out of the ordinary) that he'd done to piss Fuller off enough to warrant this type of punishment. It just wasn't fair.

"You want some?" Booker's dark eyebrows rose ever so slightly, but the rest of his face remained set in its seemingly permanent self-assured expression.

Hanson felt his lip twitch and his knuckles tingle in irritation. "_No_, I _don't. _And have you even heard a word I've said?"

Booker made his way back to his desk and plopped into his seat. He used an important-looking sheet of paper as a coaster and reclined with a wide yawn, stretching his arms above his head.

"I'm being serious, you idiot." Hanson was incredulous. "You can't just go and flush a kid's head in the toilet because some moron tells you to."

The briefest splinter of a smile flickered its way across Booker's lips and he sipped his coffee, as if trying to hide it.

_You're enjoying this, aren't you?_ Hanson folded his arms and shifted impatiently, his gaze fiery as he shot daggers at his ridiculously juvenile partner. Why on earth couldn't he have been partnered with Penhall for this one? At least his best friend knew when and where to draw the line, and had some _respect_ for his fellow co-workers. Booker was nothing but a pig-headed know-it-all, who apparently took great pleasure in being a complete jerk.

The coffee mug found its way back to its makeshift coaster and slopped more brown liquid down its side, turning the paper yellow. Booker's sunken eyes rose slightly, his mouth opening as if he was about to say something.

But Fuller's voice rang out across the office and over-rode any response he'd been about utter; "Hanson, Booker!"

Hanson's head snapped around at the sound.

"My office, now!"

_Good_, Hanson thought, spearing Booker with one last glare before turning to stalk across the room. Perhaps Fuller had heard about what had happened and was about to give their newest recruit an earful. The thought of witnessing such an event shed a small amount of light on what had been an incredibly shitty day. Hanson smiled inwardly.

He entered the office and stood to the side of Fuller's desk, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels as Booker entered the room and the door was closed behind them.

Booker calmly took one of the chairs and lowered himself into it, leaning forward with his hands dangling between his knees.

Hanson waited, biting his lip.

Fuller sighed and dropped into his seat. With a wave of his hand he said impatiently, "So? You've been there just over a week now. I need to know for sure if you think we have a case."

Hanson's expression could have sliced the air, but Fuller's eyes were on Booker as the taller of the two young men pulled himself straighter in his chair and stared at the floor before looking up. "I do," he said, before Hanson could respond.

Fuller nodded.

"Sir-" Hanson started, feeling his frustration welling within him.

But Fuller held up a silencing hand. "Do you think it could be the same group responsible for the robberies and whatnot going on around the area?"

Again Booker responded before Hanson could get a word in sideways. "There's no hard evidence to point to them directly, but there's a good chance, yes."

"And they trust you?" Fuller was staring very intently at Booker.

"Sir-" Hanson tried again.

"They do," Booker replied, "to a certain degree. They're testing me."

Hanson couldn't hold his tongue any longer. "Sir, they're getting him to bully kids."

Fuller finally looked at Hanson, resting his gaze on the irate young man a moment before returning it to Booker.

"And he's actually _doing_ it!" Hanson's tone begged for someone's- _anyone's_ attention.

"They have this dare system," Booker explained. "It's small stuff for now-"

Hanson's sharp snort cut him off. "_Small stuff_? That kid could have drowned in the toilet the way you were dunking him!"

"Were you there?" Fuller's words were like a slap in the face.

Hanson's next argument stuttered and stopped, before dying upon his tongue. No, he wasn't there. But that didn't mean he hadn't gone up to the kid afterwards to check that he was alright. The kid had been a wreck.

"I knew what I was doing," Booker growled.

_Not likely_, Hanson found himself thinking, his mind smouldering.

"These dares," Fuller continued, as if Hanson hadn't spoken at all. "Do they dare each other to do things, or just you?"

"They dare each other," Booker told him. "It's their idea of fun. Throw a brick through a window, or hassle some kid, slash some guy's tires… It's how they get their kicks."

"Set fire to trash cans out the back of restaurants, steal an old lady's purse and injure her in the process, spray-paint obscenities across kindergarten class windows…" Fuller shook his head. "The Mayor's up in arms about it. He wants them stopped."

Booker cleared his throat and leaned forward once more. "That's the thing; I can't _prove_ it was them. But if I earn their trust then they might let something slip. Or they might ask me along for their next evening on the town and we could bust them then."

"Good enough," Fuller concluded. "Keep working on them." He scrubbed a hand over tired eyes and leaned back in his chair. His gaze fell back upon Hanson.

Hanson was annoyed beyond belief, but he'd seen that look a thousand times before and knew that his complaints about Booker would have to wait. Fuller wasn't in the mood. It had been a tough week for all of them.

"Have you managed to get anything out of that Stevenson kid yet?"

Hanson sighed. No, he hadn't.

"You still think he's involved?"

_God, who knows_… The case was just annoying all round. He'd gone into the school as a nerd, while Booker had taken the role of a tough guy. Barry Stevenson had been a surprise; the kid had appeared out of nowhere, seemingly determined to befriend Hanson and get a foot in the door with the group that Booker had decided were the main suspects. At first Hanson hadn't given it much thought, but after a day or two he'd realized just how highly Barry regarded the four or so boys that wreaked havoc upon the school and anybody smaller than them, and had decided to pay the kid more attention.

"He's eager to please," he admitted now, his voice terse. "But those guys treat him the way they treat everybody else. I don't think he'll ever be as chummy with them as he likes to believe. And I don't think he's been involved in, or knows anything about, their out of school activities. Not the details we need, at least."

"They see him as a bit of a joke," Booker added. He didn't turn to look at Hanson. "They humour him by talking to him, but aside from that there's no other contact, not that I've seen anyway." His lip twitched. "I think they get off on the admiration."

Hanson nodded, and then was surprised to realize that it was the first time he and Booker had agreed on anything since they'd been assigned the case. He stopped nodding, shifting his weight and clearing his throat.

Fuller took a moment to consider the information. Eventually he shook his head. "There are a hundred rumours, and all of them point to this group of kids as the culprits." He picked up a pen and tapped the end upon his desk, as if trying to drum out his irritation. "But until we can _prove_ it was them, we have no grounds for any arrests."

Hanson watched the pen bounce against the hard surface.

"Rumours aren't enough," Fuller muttered, and then curled the pen into his palm.

Booker sat up straighter.

"Today's Wednesday," the captain declared. "Most of the incidents have been occurring on weekends. Let's not allow anything to happen this coming Saturday or Sunday. If they're planning something, I want to know about it." His gaze settled upon Booker, who nodded, before it travelled to Hanson.

There was a heartbeat of hesitation, before Hanson nodded as well.

"Good." The pen was replaced in its holder. "You're free to go, Dennis."

Booker raised a brow, briefly looking over at Hanson before obediently pushing up from his chair.

"Tom?"

Hanson was as stiff as a post, his hands still shoved in his coat pockets.

"A word if I may."

_Oh here we go_, Hanson thought, already sure that he knew what Fuller wanted to speak to him about. He hadn't even been given the opportunity to voice his full opinion on Booker's work ethics before he'd been shot down.

Booker pulled the door behind him, slightly harder than was necessary. Fuller's gaze met Hanson's and their eyes locked.

_Great, we're going to have a staring contest_. Hanson shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to look away.

Eventually Fuller broke the contact, clasped his hands and leaned forward on his elbows. "Tom," he started. "Do you know _why_ I assigned the two of you to this case?"

_Road-testing a new form of torture_? Hanson bit back the comment and instead settled for shaking his head. "No."

Fuller didn't appear surprised. He sighed. "You're both outstanding police officers." His tone wasn't as harsh as Hanson had expected, which was a minor relief. "You're both driven by a need to see justice served, and are willing to go that extra mile to catch the bad guys."

There was a 'but' coming, and Hanson knew it.

"_But-_"

There it was.

"-you seem to have trouble working as a _team_." Fuller paused. "And if you can't work together as a team of two men, how the hell are you supposed to work together in this office?"

Hanson opened his mouth, but was cut short before he had the chance to speak.

"This is an important case, Hanson."

Of course Hanson knew that.

"I don't need to remind you how vital it is that we bust these guys."

"I understand that, sir."

"Then understand that you and Dennis need to sort out whatever trust issues you may have so that you can bring these morons down _together_."

There was a heavy silence.

Fuller wasn't that angry. Hanson had expected him to be angry. This was more like… a friendly warning. Hanson pursed his lips and locked his jaw, but forced himself to nod.

"You're not that different, you know," Fuller told him with a slight smile. "You and Booker, you're very much alike."

The small amount of light in the captain's features succeeded in lifting some of the weight from Hanson's own. "I don't know about that," he said stiffly.

The smile lingered for a moment longer before fading. "Do me a favour. Give him a chance, okay?"

Hanson swallowed roughly.

"I know you mightn't always agree with the way he does things, but I seem to recall many times when I haven't been overly impressed with the way you've seen a job through, either."

There was another heavy pause.

"That doesn't mean you're not a good cop," Fuller clarified, waving a finger. "God knows, you are. I've just had to learn to have faith in you."

It was like a corny line from a movie, but Hanson knew better than to argue his point. He'd do his best to work with Booker and solve the case, but only because the quicker they got it done, the less time they'd have to spend in one another's company. Besides, Fuller should be having this conversation with Booker, not him. He wasn't the one acting up.

"Now go. I want today's report on my desk by five." Fuller groaned and abruptly grabbed a stack of papers, shuffling and sorting them into smaller piles.

It was as good a dismissal as any, and Hanson willed his legs into action and began to make his way towards the door. One last comment from Fuller stopped him as he turned the handle.

"And if you see Doug," the older man said. "Tell him to get his ass in here." He muttered something under his breath that Hanson didn't quite catch. "There's only one person in this office who'd actually think it's funny to glue the lids on all my pens."

Now Hanson smiled for real. He nodded jerkily, refusing to turn around in case the captain saw his expression. Quickly he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Booker shot him a questioning glance as he returned to his desk, but he refused to grace it with any form of explanation. Groaning inwardly, he set about organizing his scribbled notes from his day at school.

He'd keep an eye out for Doug, sure. But Fuller would have to wait in line. His friend owed him a drink, and Hanson's need for escapism came well before their captain's need to chew Doug out.

* * *

Barry Stevenson squeezed the brakes and brought his bike to a stop just outside his house. Gavin was leaning against the mail box, tossing a pebble up into the air and catching it in the same hand. The bigger boy looked bored, lazily pulling himself upright as Barry swung off the bike and regarded him quizzically.

"Have fun packing shelves?" Gavin's tone bordered condescension.

Barry shook off the remark and attempted to appear unfazed. He squared his shoulders and gave a slight shrug. It was a job, and it gave him some extra pocket money. He wouldn't do it if he didn't have to.

"I've come to ask a favour," Gavin cocked his head to the side, watching Barry's reaction, "on behalf of the boys. Of course, there'd be something in it for you, if you agree to do it."

Barry was listening. "You guys got a proper task for me this time?" It was difficult to keep the eagerness from his voice. The last task they'd given him was lame, to say the least.

Gavin paused, before nodding. "Something big's going down this weekend."

Barry liked the sound of that.

"We need a place, out of town, to conduct some business. I told the boys you'd be the man to help."

Barry hesitated. Of course he wanted to help. He just didn't know that he'd be able to. "You're thinking about my parents' cottage?"

Gavin smiled. "Damn straight."

Barry laughed nervously. That would be a pretty big favour.

The bigger boy tossed the pebble once more and snatched it into his palm. "It'd be your ticket in, if you agree." His eyes flashed coolly.

Barry's conscience was waging war against the rest of him. "If my parents found out…" he said uncertainly.

"They wont," Gavin quickly supplied. "It'd only be for the weekend."

If it was only for the weekend, perhaps he'd be able to get away with it. Barry chewed on his lip, thinking. He already knew that Gavin wouldn't tell him what they needed the cottage for. He hadn't passed enough tests to be privy to such information. But if he agreed to do this then he'd be into the group, no questions asked.

"My ticket in?" he asked after a moment.

Gavin nodded convincingly.

It seemed like a sweet enough deal. "What about the last task you gave me?" Barry had, as far as he was concerned, completed it to the best of his ability and should be exempt from continuing further.

But Gavin shook his head. "That one stays. We need you to keep going."

Barry's shoulders slumped slightly. Tom was _such_ a drag. He didn't understand why it was so important he made friends with the guy. He wasn't a babysitter.

Gavin must've read his mind. "Believe me, it's important," he said. "And the fact that you're doing it shows loyalty to us." He smiled. "We like that."

Barry squeezed a smile in return. Sure.

"So, are we in agreement?" Gavin shifted impatiently.

_Oh, what the hell_. The worse that could happen was his parents would find out and ground him; big deal. He nodded. "Leave it with me," he said, trying to banish his reluctance and sound confident. "I'll get you the keys."

Gavin stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man." He let his hand linger a moment. "I knew we could count on you."

Barry's throat was dry. "Sure."

* * *

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks so much for your comments so far! I probably wont update again so soon, but I had some time today so I got the next bit done. Ta for reading :)_

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

Booker closed the door of his locker and barely managed to suppress a jump of surprise as Gavin suddenly appeared beside him. The corridor was teeming with students whose conversations echoed off the walls and scuffed floor, the noise they were making contributing greatly to his already monstrous headache. It had been a long Thursday, and he'd made no more progress with the case he and Hanson had been assigned to. Gavin and his misfit friends weren't as easy to crack as they'd originally appeared; despite their buffoon-like exterior, Booker suspected they were a lot smarter than they looked, and so far they hadn't let anything slip. They spoke amongst themselves, but he hadn't made it into the loop yet and so didn't know what went on inside their group's core. He was almost there, though. He could feel it. He straightened his shoulders and nodded a greeting.

Gavin's lip quirked half a smile and he turned his back to the wall of lockers and leaned against it.

Booker followed suit.

"Got a job for you," Gavin murmured, his eyes alight. "If you're up for some fun, that is."

Booker hooked a thumb in his belt and casually traced the movements of the passing crowd. That sounded promising.

Gavin nodded towards the far end of the row of lockers where Hanson was fumbling with a stack of books.

Booker looked at his partner and then back at Gavin, wondering whether Hanson was what Gavin had intended him to see.

"New kid needs to be taught a lesson," Gavin confirmed. "He needs to learn who runs this school."

With professional ease Booker wiped all expression from his features and set his face in neutral. Gavin had to be kidding. He swallowed roughly, his mouth suddenly dry. He wanted to ask what the hell Hanson had done to deserve such attention, but the look on Gavin's face was deadly serious and it silenced his words before they'd had a chance to form.

"Right now?" he asked.

Gavin nodded. Right now.

As if by magic, Andy, Gavin's right-hand man, appeared and towered above Booker. For anyone to be able to do that they had to be pretty damn tall, and Booker found himself looking up into eyes that were colder than Gavin's; which, also, was no easy accomplishment.

"If you don't want to do it, Andy here is more than willing." Gavin's tone left no room for questions, and he nodded to Andy, who made a show of balling one fist and punching it into the palm of his other hand.

Booker held no doubt that Andy would do it alright. He'd seen the guy in action; he'd probably put Hanson through a wall. Hanson could kick some serious ass when need be, but Andy was something else. Again he swallowed, this time offering a jerky nod. He'd do it.

"Excellent." Gavin flashed his teeth, clapping him on the shoulder. He was always clapping people on their shoulders. It was disconcerting.

Booker inhaled deeply and attempted to centre himself, calm the hell down.

"Take him into the toilets," Gavin ordered. "Anyone in there will get out of your way. I'll leave the rest up to you." He paused, before adding, "Be creative."

Booker silently cringed. Gavin was a real piece of work. He hesitated a moment before beginning to walk towards his unsuspecting partner, who was still juggling books. He'd make a show, drag Hanson into the bathroom, and pretend to rough him up. They were actors; they pretended all the time. If this meant that he was one step closer to joining Gavin and his gang, it would be well worth their while. One step closer to solving this stinking case, one step closer to-

Gavin was following him.

Booker paused, but Gavin got a hand behind him and pushed him forwards.

"Did I not mention?" Gavin said as they closed in on Hanson. "I'm coming with."

Booker felt his heart skip a beat. _There goes the idea of pretending_, he thought grimly. _Hanson's going to have my balls on a meat-hook for this_. But if he didn't do it, Gavin or Andy would. And they wouldn't be so gentle.

Hanson heard them coming and looked up as they approached. His reflexes were impressively fast, but with a stack of books in his hands there was little he could do, and Booker grabbed him by his collar and wrenched him in the direction of the guys toilets.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea as they went. Hanson struggled like a fish, cursing and kicking. Booker got an arm around his waist and lifted him off the floor, hurling them through the bathroom doorway as Gavin kicked it open. Two younger kids who'd been chatting at the sink nearly tripped over themselves as they scurried out of the way. There were a couple of shouts from the corridor as the door swung closed, but Booker knew no one would be game to get a teacher. There was a splinter of a second when his eyes met Hanson's, and he felt his gut turn. _Trust me_, he wanted to say, but Hanson didn't trust him, he knew that beyond a doubt. There was a question in Hanson's eyes and it screamed: _What the hell are you doing?!_ Booker couldn't listen to it. Gavin's gaze was burning into him, waiting, testing.

"Come _on_!" came the impatient hiss.

If Booker didn't do it, Gavin would.

_S__orry Tom_, he thought as he readjusted his grip. As swiftly as he could, he spun away from Gavin so that the other boy's view was obstructed by his back, and clocked his partner across the jaw. It was a gentle punch; at least, as gentle as he could make it without giving Gavin a reason to become suspicious. Hanson, for his part, let his head snap back more than it should have, and cried out as if he'd been struck a lot harder. _That's it_, Booker thought. _Let's act this out_. _Let's show him what he wants to see_. Hanson would play his part, even if he was pissed as hell. They were professionals. This was what they'd been trained to do.

"We're teaching you a lesson, dweeb." Gavin's voice rebounded off the tiled surfaces, making him sound larger than life. "See, in this school, you're just a pawn."

Booker threw another punch and jerked Hanson in the direction of one of the cubicles.

Hanson must've thought he was about to be flushed, because his thrashing became a lot more genuine and it didn't take a genius to read the '_Don't you fucking dare'_ written across his face.

"You play by our rules now." There was a chill to Gavin's tone that made Booker uneasy.

Quickly Booker steered them into the cubicle and kicked the door, slamming it loudly and cutting Gavin from view. With a grunt he pushed Hanson against it, scuffling, getting a knee up into his friend's gut. Hanson doubled over, crying out, groaning in agony. It was all show, of course, but it sounded frighteningly real. Booker leaned closer to Hanson's ear and whispered an apology. Hanson offered him a withering look as a reply and continued to struggle.

"You heard what the man said." Booker let his voice rise threateningly.

Scuffle- punch- scuffle-

The cubicle door rattled and shook.

Hanson's voice was suddenly a sharp hiss in Booker's ear. "Is that all you've got? I thought you hated me more than this. You know if they don't see blood they'll think you've gone easy on me-"

- scuffle- curse- scuffle-

Booker narrowed his eyes. He wasn't the one doing the hating in their work relationship. He'd never _hated_ Hanson; he just thought the guy was anally retentive, with an infuriating case of OCD.

"You've taken it this far-" Hanson continued. "You may as well finish what you started. You need their trust. _We _need their trust. _Finish it_-"

- kick- curse- scuffle-

Booker swallowed hard. Hanson was right. Gavin was watching just to see the result. What a God-awful situation. Had he really allowed it to come to this?

Yes.

"Make it fast," Hanson whispered soberly.

_You're going to kick my ass afterwards anyway_, Booker realized, feeling mildly nauseous. "Sorry…" he breathed, and broke their eye contact as he pulled his fist back. Wiping all thoughts from his mind, he punched his partner for real.

Hanson's head snapped back against the door and blood rushed from his nose. Booker released his grip, and Hanson slid down to the cold floor, groaning.

The cubicle door was opened and Booker stepped over his victim. Gavin's face flashed approval as he glared down at the scrunched form of the newest geek in their year; now bloody and shaking.

"Very nice," he said.

Booker pushed past him. _Screw you, jerk_.

"That's a close ten out of ten."

Booker's knuckles were white as he pulled open the bathroom door.

Gavin jogged to get ahead of him. "Congratulations," he grinned. "You've just passed the test."

To say that Booker was tempted to pound Gavin into the earth would have been an understatement. It took great effort to shove his fists into his pockets. "That's just fantastic," he hissed. "Do I get a medal?"

Gavin chuckled, slowing his steps and hanging his head. "You're a real character, Dennis. " The grin faded from his face. "We could use someone like you."

_Oh really_? Booker wanted to laugh. Obviously Gavin prided himself on being a good judge of character. It would be a pleasure to flash his badge when the time came. _And possibly knock the moron's teeth out with it_. He shook his hands in his pockets. They needed to get to class; the corridor was emptying.

Gavin nodded, as if pleased about something. He lowered his voice, stepping closer. "You're in," he said.

Booker tried to appear happy. He hesitated a moment, before nodding in return.

"I knew it wasn't a mistake, picking you." Gavin grinned once more. "The other boys had their doubts, but I knew we could trust you. And trust-" he said, tapping a finger against Booker's chest, "is a _very_ important thing."

Booker had to fight to keep his real emotions at bay. _Don't I know it_, he thought.

Taking a deep breath, he turned and began to head to their next class, resisting the urge to glance back in the direction of the bathroom.

* * *

"Let me see." Penhall leaned closer, but Hanson swatted him away. It was four-thirty in the afternoon and Hanson was leaning back in his chair, an ice pack pressed firmly against his top lip and nose. Booker hadn't come in yet, but as far as Hanson was concerned his partner could drop off the face of the planet.

"I really don't think it's as bad as it looks."

Hanson's expression must've spoken volumes, because Penhall shut up very quickly and backed away.

It wasn't about how _much_ it hurt; it was the fact that Booker had done it in the first place.

"Would you have got us into that sort of situation?" With a swollen lip, Hanson's words came out slightly muffled.

Penhall took a moment to consider the question.

Hanson felt his anger boil. "On second thought, don't answer that." _You're not supposed to think about it, a simple 'no' would have sufficed_. Squeezing his eyes closed he tilted his head back and attempted to calm his mind, take deep breaths.

Fuller hadn't even cared. He'd thrown Hanson the ice pack and had congratulated Booker when the latter had called to say that he'd be hanging out with the suspects after school. "This is good," their captain had declared, "very, very, very good." _Freakin' fantastic_, Hanson had groaned, wanting to grab the phone and scream down the receiver. Booker must have asked after him then, because Fuller said something along the lines of, "No, he's fine. He'll live," nodding and smiling in Hanson's direction. Hanson had listened to Fuller's enthusiasm for another few minutes before deciding he'd had enough and returning to his desk. He'd resolved to spend the remainder of the afternoon brooding and feeling angry about everything.

But then Penhall had turned up.

"Just think," his friend said now. "This gives you an actual reason to hit him."

_Oh yeah, that's brilliant_. Hanson cracked open an eye. He'd hit Booker, Booker would hit him back; they'd go round and round in circles until one of them either quit their job or died.

"I'm just trying to make you feel better." Penhall's voice was small. He had a way of making his voice small, and it always made Hanson feel bad.

Small voices didn't suit big guys like Doug. Hanson sighed. "I know. I'm sorry." He let the ice pack drop into his hand and pulled himself straighter in his seat. He was just frustrated. In fact, he was possibly more frustrated with the case than he was with Booker. Not that he was ready to admit that yet.

Penhall perched on the edge of the desk. "So, Booker's hanging out with the other thugs this afternoon?"

Hanson nodded. Booker was definitely making progress. At least one of them was.

"What about the guy you were working for information?"

Penhall was referring to Barry. Hanson let out a snort. "I get all the good ones," he mumbled sarcastically, slowly shaking his head. "He worships the ground those boys walk on, but he's about as useful as-" He grabbed a small, plastic soldier that sat beside his phone and waved it around. "This."

Penhall looked wounded. "Hey, I gave you that."

Hanson quickly replaced the soldier and continued. "When he saw what Booker did to me today he whistled in awe. I mean, seriously, in _awe_. Little shit. He's meant to be my friend."

"So? Tell Fuller you're at a dead-end. Maybe he'll pull you off the case." Penhall shrugged, then added, "I could use some help with mine."

Hanson couldn't help himself. His lip twitched. "Yeah, I always told you I was the brains. You're lost without me."

A punch against his arm shut him up.

"Don't get cocky, Tommy. I could definitely kick your ass."

"Whatever, man."

The ice pack found its way back to his nose and Hanson let out another sigh. Perhaps Booker would call and tell them something was going down tonight. Perhaps they'd have this group busted and behind bars before the weekend. _Ha, wishful thinking_. But at least then he wouldn't have to hang out with Barry anymore. The kid wanted to meet up the next day after school to share burgers and discuss their current chemistry assignment. "God, I hate chemistry…"

Penhall raised a brow. "What?"

Hanson shook his thoughts back into gear. "Nothing," he muttered, trying not to wince as he adjusted the ice pack.

His lip was split, and his nose had bled for ages. He'd have a nice bruise when the swelling finally went down.

_I'm gonna kill him_, he thought for the hundredth time, glaring in the direction of Booker's desk. When all of this was over, he'd definitely, probably, possibly kill Dennis Booker.

* * *

Gavin spun the basketball in his hands and watched Dennis' motorbike vanish down the road. Dennis was definitely impressive on the court, giving them all a run for their money. The only thing that bothered Gavin about their new friend was that he was over-eager, always ready to hit the town and get up to some mischief. It had been for this very reason that the others hadn't trusted him. They'd labeled him a cop because he'd started school at the same time as Tom Hanson. But Gavin had tested Dennis, and Dennis had passed. If he was a cop, he would never have agreed to rough Tom up the way he did today. The guy wasn't a liability; he was an asset. As far as Gavin was concerned he'd prove extremely useful this weekend when the real action went down.

Barry had once again come through, turning up to school with the keys to his parents' secluded cottage. "You tell Tom that you'll meet him at _Betty's_ tomorrow at four," Gavin had instructed. Like an obedient dog, Barry had nodded. His desire to please was almost sickening, but throughout this whole situation it had proved to be incredibly useful. Gavin had delivered his most genuine grin. "You're one of us now, kiddo." And Barry had smiled back. "Sure."

Not all of his boys knew what was happening this weekend. They knew that something was going down, but they didn't know what. It was safer that way, because it meant less room to screw things up. Simon didn't like screw ups. Gavin had only known the older boy for a short while, but he didn't seem like the type of guy who'd take mistakes well. _It doesn't matter_, Gavin thought, bouncing the ball against the dark pavement. _So long as this situation is resolved, for all of us_. Simon seemed the type of guy to keep his word. He seemed smart, too. He'd known about Tom Hanson, and had tipped them off.

"That rat busted my brother," Simon had explained, approaching Gavin one day on the basketball court after school. "And he'll bust you too, if you're not careful." Gavin hadn't believed him at first, but after listening to Simon's story it had become clear that he was telling the truth. "What should we do?" He'd asked, trying to hide his anxiety. Simon had offered him a sly grin. "Don't you worry, man, Simon's got it covered. I just need your co-operation." And Gavin had agreed right then and there to do whatever it might take.

Now they were planning on cornering Hanson and taking him up to Barry's parents' cottage where Simon would be waiting. Barry had successfully gained Hanson's trust, leading him to believe that he knew about Gavin and his gang, when really, he knew nothing. It_ was_ possible that Hanson was getting tired, and would soon twig that Barry wasn't as informed as he believed. But by then it would be too late, and their plan would be in motion. Gavin recalled his last conversation with Dennis before they'd parted ways for the evening. He'd told Dennis to get his beauty sleep because they had a big weekend planned, starting from tomorrow night. Of course, they'd go straight from school, but Dennis didn't need to know that. _The less they know, the better_, his thoughts repeated. It was safer that way.

In the fading light of the day, Gavin grinned. This was going to be fun. This was going to be very, very fun indeed.

* * *

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks again to everyone who left a comment :0) Here's the next bit._

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

Hanson twisted his key from the ignition and listened as silence filled the car. He was parked across from _Betty's_ burger joint under a towering maple tree that shadowed the road with its colourful foliage and marked the beginning of a small park. The afternoon was dull, and the sun was already sinking behind the tops of buildings that lined the street. It was creeping up on four o'clock, but he still had a handful of minutes before he was supposed to meet Barry.

Leaning back in his seat, he passed a hand over his eyes and gently massaged his temples. He felt like the past two weeks had been a shambles, with life going one way and his instincts screaming at him to go the other. Things were going pear-shaped, with very little being achieved. He let his eyes sag closed. God, this whole case was a mess.

Working with Booker was no straightforward piece of pie. The guy was stubborn and reckless, with crazy ways of managing situations. He knew how to push people's buttons and did it on a regular basis, seeming to enjoy it every time. He was inappropriate when he should be serious, insensitive when he should be concerned. He was sloppy, and irresponsible, and a whole lot more trouble than he was freakin' well worth. But, above all, (and this was what had dropped upon Hanson like a ton of bricks the night before, after he'd gone home from the chapel and had sat on his couch thinking about things until his brain had ached); Booker was _different_. He was not Penhall. It was that simple.

Hanson struggled with things that were different. He hated when something happened that he wasn't in control of. Just like when his father had died, just like when he'd been transferred to the Jump Street program a couple of years ago; working with Booker was _not_ something he was used to. And that, more than anything, was why he was finding this case so damn hard.

He opened his eyes and let his gaze tailgate a lady who was pushing a pram along the sidewalk beside his car. As she passed by, the wind whipped some of the crisp brown leaves from the pavement and spiraled them in her wake, turning them like confetti. He watched her disappear from view, before tearing his gaze away and blinking rapidly. He'd spent the entire day enduring Barry's incessant rambling, and his head and jaw were aching. His lip was still swollen, and there was a shadow of a bruise beginning to show through his pale skin. Lifting a hand, he rubbed at it absently. Booker had one hell of a right hook.

His partner had messed up somewhere along the way, getting them into the situation they'd been in yesterday. But Hanson had overstepped the line with some of the things he'd said while they were fighting in the bathroom, and he wanted to apologize; as awful and awkward as that would be. Booker wasn't the only one out of the pair of them who could act like a jerk sometimes. In the midst of Hanson's hardcore pondering the night before, he'd realized this. But, as the day had worn on, no opportunity to chat with his partner had presented itself. He'd waited at the chapel after school, but in the half hour he was there, Booker hadn't turned up._ He's probably off with his new friends_, he'd decided. Unfortunately, their conversation would have to wait for later.

Jiggling his keys in his hand, he heaved a sigh and pushed open his door. The chilly fall air was beginning to seep through the glass and dissolve the leftover warmth from when he'd had the engine running, and it reminded him that it wouldn't be long before the streets would be lined in snow and they'd all start wishing that they lived somewhere warmer. He shut the door with a creak and a slam, and hugged his coat tighter. He wandered across the asphalt. He'd never been to _Betty's _before, but by the looks of the faces through the windows, he guessed it was the local teen hangout. A bunch of giggling girls burst from the door as he approached it, and he pretended not to notice as one of them looked him up and down before nodding approvingly and flashing a smile. He turned his eyes away, feeling his cheeks flush. God, she probably wasn't even legal. Hastily he pulled the door open, and disappeared inside.

The dining room was alive with noise, and most of the booths were full. Slipping past group after group of school kids guzzling milkshakes and chomping fries, he made his way along the wall of windows to a free booth and fell upon the vinyl bench. Barry was nowhere to be seen, but Hanson had guessed this would be the case. _Better to be early_, he always thought. It gave him time to process his surroundings and assess the scene. Not that the 'scene' needed much assessing, in this case. It was pretty much like a snapshot from _Grease_; most of these kids probably hadn't done anything beyond smoking the occasional joint or stealing a sip or two from one of the bottles on their parents' liquor trolley.

He stifled a grin, and grabbed a menu from under the sugar dispenser. It was a laminated sheet of paper, attached to a record cover. He flipped it over; _Simon and Garfunkel: Bridge over Troubled Water_. It was sticky and stained with what looked like ketchup in a few places, and he quickly replaced it, snagging a paper napkin and wiping his fingers. It was going to be a long afternoon. Perhaps, if Barry turned out to be as un-useful this afternoon as he had been for the past two weeks, Hanson could attempt to hunt down Booker again. His current partner shouldn't be that difficult to find. Perhaps the two of them could meet up for a beer.

Abruptly he shook his head. He wanted to clear things up with Booker, not become the guy's best friend. He'd find him, talk to him, pat him on the shoulder and squeeze a smile. That would be it. No beers, no heart-to-hearts; that was what he did with Penhall. Agreeing to work with Booker didn't mean that he was replacing his original partner. He nodded to himself, as if approving the thought.

It was five minutes to four o'clock. He leaned back and drummed his fingertips lightly upon the table, shifting so that he could stare out the window. Low clouds rolled in patches overhead, conspiring to block out what was left of the afternoon sun. If Hanson could be anywhere, it would be on his couch with a good book and a drink of some sort. He was tired and in desperate need of a holiday. Perhaps he'd head up into the mountains this winter, do some skiing. _Yeah right_, he thought miserably. Fuller would never give him the time off.

In the booth beside him, a goofy-looking kid had decided it would be fun to smother a fry in ketchup and draw a pair of boobs on the window. Hanson sighed. The kid's friends erupted with laughter.

Sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered how the hell he'd ended up with a job like this.

* * *

Booker was uncomfortable, but it had nothing to do with the fact that his studded belt was digging into him or that his beanie was itching his ears. He'd expected to head to the chapel after school, spend some time chatting with Hanson and Fuller before heading out on the town with the boys to get up to whatever the hell they were getting up to this evening. He hadn't expected Gavin to be waiting for him in the school parking lot at three o'clock. He hadn't expected Andy to pull up alongside them, and for Gavin to order him into the vehicle. He _had_ expected to meet them later, outside a bar downtown. This wasn't what he'd prepared for, and, coming straight from school, he wasn't even armed.

They'd cruised around the streets for a while, and Gavin and Andy had chatted with one another in low voices. Booker had leaned through the gap between their seats, hoping to be told what was going on, but they'd brushed him off. "Need to know basis," Gavin had explained, without even turning around. "You'll find out soon enough. Just keep your shirt on." Booker had slumped back, trying to swallow his mounting anxiety. Trapped in a car the way he was, he'd had no way of calling Fuller or Hanson to let them know what was going on. He was worried that something would happen and he'd be forced to bust these guys alone. Normally the thought wouldn't bother him, but this was Gavin and Andy he was talking about, and they were no normal delinquents.

Now they stood in an alley beside a heap of trash cans. Booker had his hands shoved deep in his pockets and was beginning to jiggle with impatience. They'd been standing here for a good ten minutes, and it was getting cold. The alley smelled of rotting meat, damp cardboard and piss, and it was making him nauseous. They were near a restaurant, or a fast food place of some sort, and every now and then the smell of greasy fries overrode the other smells around him. Gavin was casually smoking a cigarette, and Andy stood like a gargoyle with his arms folded and shoulders hunched. _What the hell are we doing_? Booker had asked the question a hundred times, but was yet to receive a decent answer. The lack of decent answers was seriously driving him insane.

A couple more minutes passed by and the situation became excruciatingly painful. Patience had never been one of Booker's strong points, and now he was worried that if something didn't happen soon, he'd likely put a fist through one of the stained brick walls. The alley was far too small, and he began to feel claustrophobic. In an effort to calm himself down he tilted his face towards the sky and watched pieces of clouds drift across the slit of blue that stretched between the rooftops. He was in the middle of doing this, when Barry Stevenson jogged in from the street.

Gavin didn't seem surprised to see Barry; it was like he'd been expecting it. This confused Booker, as he hadn't actually witnessed much interaction between the pair.

"Is he here?" Gavin asked.

Barry nodded, casting a quick glance at Booker and then dismissing him just as quickly.

"You know what to do, then." Gavin said, tossing his cigarette to the damp concrete and snuffing it out with the toe of his shoe.

Barry appeared slightly nervous, but continued to nod, regardless.

"Don't go inside. Just wander by the windows a couple of times. He'll see you and wonder why you're not going in."

Booker had no idea what Gavin was talking about, but his instincts told him that something was about to happen, and that it wouldn't necessarily be pretty.

"What if he doesn't come out?" Barry's voice wavered slightly.

Gavin just bared a few teeth in a thin smile. "Oh, he will. And as soon as he does, you start walking this way. He'll follow. Just like a dog." There was venom in his tone, and Barry hesitated a moment longer before beginning to make his way back to the street. He paused at the end, but Gavin motioned him onwards.

Booker's thoughts were frantic, trying to work out what was happening. He couldn't hold his tongue any longer. "We gonna rough up some kid?" He asked, trying to sound eager.

Gavin exchanged a quick look with Andy, and the gargoyle's features flinched into an unsettling smirk.

"Better," Gavin confirmed.

Andy rolled up his sleeves.

Gavin's eyes flashed wickedly. "You're going to love this, Dennis. Just love it. You wait."

Booker took a steadying breath. _Oh yeah_? He tried to smile confidently.

Well now, they'd see about that.

* * *

Hanson craned his neck and peered around the noisy dining room. It was now ten minutes past four and he was growing impatient waiting for his young friend. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to be elsewhere. The clatter and chaos of the busy burger joint was grating upon his eardrums, and he was tired of catching snippets of adolescent conversations. He drummed his fingertips against the table and leaned back so that his head was resting against the high top of the vinyl bench. With his brow furrowed, he twisted his gaze towards the window. Barry suddenly appeared in the corner of his vision, startling him. Turning his gaze completely, he realized that his friend wasn't late at all; simply stupid.

They'd said they'd meet inside. Why on earth was he waiting out on the street? Hanson rapped a knuckle against the cold glass, hoping to catch the kid's attention. But, infuriatingly, his knocks fell upon deaf ears.

He tried again, harder this time. But Barry was off-world, totally unaware that Hanson was in the window behind him. He rocked like a pendulum, turning his head this way and that; looking down the street, up the street, from the door of the burger joint and back to the road again. Hanson's brow crinkled further. _What the hell_? The kid was definitely strange.

Heaving a sigh and muttering a string of under-the-breath curses, he manoeuvred himself out from his booth and picked his way back towards the front door. Once there, he shouldered it open. The crisp afternoon air was a startling contrast to the stuffiness of the room he'd just been in and it slapped him in the face, causing his eyes to water. He frowned and blinked at Barry.

Barry turned to face him, hesitated a moment, and then began to walk away.

Hanson raised a brow, unsure how to respond. He tried calling Barry's name, but again was ignored. _I'm so not in the mood for this_, he thought, willing himself into motion and starting after his friend. Barry began to jog, and Hanson quickened his pace to match. _This is fucking ridiculous._ "Barry-!" But Barry kept on moving, jogging a few more feet before veering into an alley. Hanson's footfalls slowed, but he continued to follow. Either Barry had lost the plot, or something was seriously wrong. Deciding that he needed to find out either way, he turned into the alley. Something big came out of nowhere. It caught him off gaurd, hitting him like a freight train.

He was grabbed around the waist, and tackled from the side. He felt each inch of rough pavement as he skidded across it, coming to an abrupt halt against a wall before being jerked from the ground by a strong hand clamped around his throat. He tried to fight back, but was rattled harshly and thrown against the wall until his breath hitched in his lungs. The hand released, and he felt a forearm snake around his throat in a suffocating embrace.

"Well, well, well," came a familiar sneer. "What do we have here?"

Hanson desperately attempted to get his bearings, but his airway was being crushed and it was disorienting him. Finally his vision focused, and Gavin's face swam into view. Barry was backed up against the opposite wall of the alley, and Booker stood a few feet away, his expression a mixture of half-smothered apprehension and barely concealed shock.

"Now, now, Andy, don't break his neck."

Gavin was speaking to the hulk holding Hanson. Hanson tried struggling again, but it was no use. Gavin turned to Booker, and smiled malevolently. Hanson's eyes skipped between the two, searching his partner's features and realizing with a pang of worry that Booker hadn't expected this and was trying, as he was, to assess the situation and work out the quickest way of dismantling it. Their gazes met, but only for a moment.

"I have a surprise for you," Gavin said to Booker, stepping forward and grabbing Hanson by the coat.

Hanson tried to push him off, but Andy had his arms pinned and there was no room to lift his legs to deliver any kicks. Gavin's hands rummaged through Hanson's coat pockets until they found what they were looking for, and within a heartbeat Hanson's badge was flashing for all to see.

"This little dweeb," Gavin spat, "isn't a dweeb at all." His eyes bored into Hanson's.

Booker's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly, and a portion of the colour drained from his cheeks.

Gavin leaned closer, his breath warm against Hanson's cheek. "He's a fucking _cop_."

In the background, Barry's eyes went wide.

"And we don't _like_ cops, do we Andy."

Hanson was rattled roughly. Andy was squeezing his throat so tight it hurt.

"We're going to teach him a lesson." Gavin pocketed Hanson's badge and spun to face Booker, backing off a little. "Would you believe he was sent to our school to _bust_ us, to _stop_ us having fun?"

Booker pinned Hanson with a steady stare. Gavin had known Hanson's real identity all along. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Booker's expression changed gears and became something more determined, something absolute. He reached into his coat pocket and squared his shoulders, meeting Gavin's cold eyes.

_No_, Hanson's mind whirled. Booker was going to pull his badge. But Gavin didn't know Booker was a cop. If Booker blew his cover, their case would be screwed. _There's no point in both of us going down_. With all the energy he could muster, Hanson grunted and pushed back against Andy. His feet left the ground and he just managed to plant a boot into his partner's stomach, doubling Booker over.

Gavin lashed out and backhanded him across the face. Hanson tasted blood against his teeth, and when he looked again, Booker was straightening and trying not to appear too startled. Booker's eyes met Hanson's, and Hanson desperately hoped that his partner had got the hint. There was a weighty moment, in which Gavin cursed and yelled. Finally, slightly reluctant understanding flickered across Booker's features, and Hanson breathed an internal sigh of relief. Booker wouldn't blow his cover; yet. That was good. That was very, very good.

What wasn't so good, however, was the look of malice burning within Gavin's eyes. "We've gotta do whatever it takes," Gavin explained. "We've gotta protect ourselves from rats like this." His finger jabbed Hanson's chest.

Hanson couldn't find his voice to speak.

Thankfully, Booker did it for him. "He's a fucking cop, Gavin." The sentence trembled at the end, betraying fear. Booker would negotiate. He would try to scare Gavin out of doing whatever he had planned. "We could get locked up for this." The argument was reasonable. "Let's just dump him and run."

In the background, Barry scuttled a few steps, inching away from the group of boys.

Booker's hands were in his coat pockets, and he jiggled them, chewing his lip nervously.

Gavin was not impressed. "Are you chicken shit, Dennis?" His voice rose. "What the hell do you mean, _let's just dump him and run_?" His palm flung out and he pushed Booker backwards.

Booker steadied himself, removing his hands from his pockets and holding them in a gesture of peace.

Hanson tried again to pry Andy's arm loose from his throat, desperate to get a decent breath. But it was no use; he wasn't going anywhere. Secretly he wondered whether Booker was really nervous, or whether it was all for show. _It's a fine line_, he thought grimly, weighing their chances of resolving the situation and not particularly liking their odds.

"I just don't think we should do anything stupid." Booker's eyes flicked from Gavin to Andy, searching for some sort of support.

But it was like appealing to feral dogs not to chase an injured rabbit.

Gavin shook his head, pinning Booker with a disgusted glare. "You disappoint me," he said. "I thought I could count on you." He took a step towards Hanson and Andy.

Hanson was beginning to feel light-headed from not being able to breathe properly.

Booker ran a hand over his brow, pushing his hair back from his face. For a moment his features reflected the volume of thoughts charging through his mind. _He _is_ nervous_, Hanson realized, taking a mental snapshot of the expression. He wanted to tell Booker that it was okay. But even if he'd been able to speak, he wouldn't have had the chance.

In the blink of an eye, Gavin had pulled a pistol from his belt. It had been concealed by his jacket but now it caught the dull afternoon glare, glinting menacingly. The sight of it stopped Hanson's heart, and time slowed down.

Booker stepped forward, opening his mouth to say something, not seeing the gun.

Gavin spun around and struck him across the forehead with the hilt of the weapon.

Booker went down like a rag doll, crumpling with a grunt into an ungraceful mess upon the ground.

Hanson froze, unblinking. _Son of a-_!

Gavin whirled to face him.

"We're wasting time," Andy said, and the rumble of his voice travelled straight through Hanson's back.

Gavin nodded, concealing the weapon again.

At least he hadn't shot Booker. Hanson stared down at his partner, his stomach turning. _Get up, man, c'mon, just get up_… But it was futile. Booker was out for the count.

"We're gonna go for a drive, _cop_," Gavin hissed, spitting the last word like it hurt him to speak it aloud.

Barry was like a statue, his cheeks deathly pale as he looked from Booker's unmoving form to the two boys and Hanson.

_Well that didn't go to plan_. Hanson looked at Barry. _Just stay calm, kid_. Despite the fact that Barry had been in on this, it was obvious that he hadn't known all the details. He looked too frightened. He looked like a fucking rabbit in the headlights.

"You rat on us, and you're dead," Gavin didn't even look at Barry. "You call the cops, and I will hunt you down and destroy you. Do you understand?"

Barry was shaking so hard, his teeth chattered as he spoke. "Y-yes." It was barely a whisper.

God, this was _not_ how Hanson had imagined his evening going down.

Gavin gave a nod, and Andy jerked Hanson into an even more uncomfortable position, covering his mouth with a bear-like paw.

They began to make their way down the alley, leaving Barry and Booker behind. Hanson's feet dragged, kicking, along the ground, and he gave one final effort to squirm free, trying to twist so that he could elbow Andy in the gut. But Gavin was suddenly in his face. "You try _anything_, and I will hurt you." Their eyes locked. Hanson winced. He had a bad feeling Gavin was planning on doing that anyway.

_So much for dismantling the situation_, he thought bitterly. God, how the hell had they ended up in this position in the first place? He'd let his guard down; he'd trusted Booker. He squeezed his eyes closed. _No_. Booker was not to blame. This situation was both of their doing. They'd screwed up, _together_, and now they were _both_ in trouble. This was bad. This was very, _very_ bad.

They approached the end of the alley. Gavin stopped abruptly, and Andy mumbled something incoherent.

"You're right," Gavin replied, peering onto the street. "I don't trust him either." He twitched a smile, turning to Hanson.

The last thing Hanson saw was Gavin's fist.

"Lights out," came the clipped warning.

And then everything went black.

* * *

Barry watched as Gavin punched Tom out. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. Tom was a cop. He hadn't known Tom was a cop. Gavin hadn't said anything. _Oh God_…

Gavin and Andy dragged Tom out of view. Dennis was still on the ground, unmoving. Barry couldn't look at Dennis. Dennis might be dead. Barry felt nauseous. Barry needed to get away. Barry shuddered. _Oh Jesus_…

He began to run.

Barry shot from the mouth of the alley. He hurtled across the road without looking. He tripped on the curb and raced into the park. He ran until he couldn't run anymore.

He stopped. He collapsed against a building. He doubled over. He was violently sick.

His vision swam. His stomach churned. His throat burned from bile.

Tom was a cop.

_Oh God_…

Barry curled in on himself, rocking. He didn't know what to do. Tears began to rush from his eyes. He had to get home. He stood, staggered, and continued to stumble down the street.

Stray clouds blew overhead, and crisp fall leaves shattered underfoot as he raced along the pavement.

* * *

_tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

_Well, one good thing about being sick and stuck at home is that I got some more of this story written :) Thanks again to everyone who's taken the time to leave a comment so far, I really appreciate it and try to take everything on board! Please pick me up on any Britishisms I might use (apart from British English spelling) If something's set in the US I want to write it like it's set there, but it's hard sometimes because I've never been... Anyways, thanks again for reading this. Have a lovely week :0)_

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Penhall was bored. It was four forty-seven, and he was stuck at his desk waiting for Fuller to finish up in an 'important' meeting with some guy from the Mayor's office who'd marched in wearing a hideous paisley tie and navy blue pin-striped suit. All he wanted was to give Fuller his report and head for home. It wasn't like he'd made much progress with his case, so it would take him all of _two seconds_. He turned to Ioki, opening his mouth to speak.

But Ioki got there first. "Don't even think about it," came the firm warning. Ioki's gaze was steady. "He _will_ kick your ass if you disturb him."

Again Penhall went to speak, but again Ioki cut him off.

"You want to see him. I want to see him. We both want to see him, but we both have to be patient."

"But we've been waiting for more than _half an hour_!"

Ioki shrugged. "So? Use the time to do some work."

Penhall eyed the mound of papers stacked haphazardly beside his desk with more than a hint of disdain. "It's Friday afternoon…" The chapel had drained like a sieve and they were the only two officers left. "We could at least have a beer or something. What about a game of poker? I can go find the cards." He pushed his chair back.

But Ioki shook his head. "I wanna get this done."

Penhall groaned and felt his frustration rise. The silence was killing him. His eyes shot to Fuller's door and he found himself wishing he had super powers just to be able to burn a hole in it.

Sal appeared.

Penhall was on him in an instant. "Sal!"

The shorter man flinched, clutching his mop and bucket tighter and quickening his pace.

Penhall leaped around his desk to intercept him. "How about a game of cards? Or a beer? Or… anything?" His voice held desperation.

But Sal shook his head, backing away. "No, I- I'm sorry Doug." He shuffled towards the locker room. "I've got stuff to do… I want to be out of here before midnight, which will be pushing it because you lot make such a mess..." The last bit was added with the smallest amount of resentment.

A small grin rippled over Ioki's features.

Penhall's shoulders slumped in defeat. "You guys are no fun," he grumbled, reluctantly returning to his desk. _I'd like to be out of here before midnight too_, he thought miserably, falling back into his chair.

He scooped up a pad of post-it notes and grouchily ran a finger along their edge, flicking them like a fan. He could stick them all over Hanson's desk, chair, phone and personal belongings…?

No… too childish.

He could cocoon Hanson's phone in rubber bands!

No… too fidgety.

He could remove the bolts and screws from Hanson's chair?

No… Hanson would kill him.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes until he saw stars.

Ioki chuckled. "Give it up, man."

The minute hand on the clock ticked over to four forty-eight.

_God_, Penhall thought. _This is so unbelievably painful_. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against the hard surface of his desk. "I am going to die here," he stated, closing his eyes.

Ioki chuckled some more.

_No_, Penhall thought. _Seriously, this isn't funny_.

Ioki shook his head.

Suddenly, with an abruptness that shattered the silence and sent their hearts hammering in their chests, Penhall's phone burst to life and he shot upright, blinking like someone had slapped him. In the dead of the room, the noise was dreadful. Jerkily, he reached for the receiver, more concerned with shutting it up than anything else. "Officer Penhall," he barked.

But even if he'd been given warning about the call, nothing could have prepared him for what he heard next.

Booker's voice was a rush of tangled sentences. "Doug- it was a set-up." The words shot through the phone like bullets. "They've got Hanson- they've taken him somewhere… I don't know where-"

Penhall was on his feet, the receiver still pressed to his ear.

"They knew he was a cop, I don't know how." Booker's voice sounded as though it came through clenched teeth. "They knocked me out, I couldn't stop them-"

Pause.

"We need to find them. I don't know what they'll do to him."

Ioki also stood up, now aware that something was wrong.

Penhall finally found his voice. "You need to slow down." His thoughts were crashing together. "What do you mean, _they've got Hanson_? _Who's _got Hanson?" A cold feeling settled into his stomach.

Ioki was as stiff as a post.

"The guys we were investigating-" There was fear lacing Booker's words. "They played us from the beginning." He was breathing heavily. "They screwed us over." There was another pause, the phone line crackling. "I didn't know." His voice rose. "I didn't _know_."

Penhall's gaze met Ioki's, before flicking to their captain's office.

"We've got to find him," Booker was scared, and angry. "We've got to hurry."

Penhall was angry as well. But losing it wouldn't help. He had to think. He had to think,_ fast_. There was no time to explain to Fuller. If his partner had been taken by a bunch of goons, then he had to go and he had to go _now_. "Where are you?" He demanded.

Booker told him.

"I'm coming to you." He slammed the phone down before Booker even had the chance to reply.

Ioki demanded to know what was happening, but there was no time for detailed explanations.

"Booker says Hanson's in trouble," was all Penhall said. "I need to go." He scooped up his jacket and rounded his desk.

Ioki must've caught onto the gravity of the situation, because he hesitated, nodded, and then pulled his car keys from his pocket.

Penhall caught them.

Ioki's voice was tense. "Take my car. It's easier than your bike if you need to get Booker."

Penhall jerked a grateful nod in return, continuing to the door. "Tell Fuller we've got a situation."

"This is against protocol, you know."

Penhall took the stairs to the door two at a time. "Fuck protocol."

Ioki bit his lip. "Be careful then," he said. And then he added quickly, "And make sure you call-"

But Penhall didn't reply, nor did he look back. He flew out the door, all but falling down the stairs into the parking lot. He ignored the last two and hit the ground at a run.

_And in the blink of an eye, life can change_... He reached Ioki's car, pulling the door open and hurling himself inside. He twisted the key in the ignition and stepped on the gas.

He swallowed jaggedly, refusing to panic. The car fishtailed as he sped out of the parking lot. He _wouldn't_ panic.

_In less than a heartbeat, everything can change..._

He couldn't panic.

_Just. Like. That._

* * *

Booker leaned against the phone box, his throbbing forehead resting uncomfortably against his left arm. His right hand was still curled around the receiver, though the call he'd made to the chapel had ended minutes ago. He could still hear Penhall's voice in his ear; the final words, "I'm coming to you," before the line had gone dead. His mind was a rattled mess, a shattered window. He couldn't quite grasp the pieces to put the puzzle back together again. Hanson was in trouble. Hanson had been taken somewhere. Hanson's cover had been blown right from the beginning, and neither of them had known a damn thing.

They'd fucked things up.

They'd really, really fucked things up.

He pounded the phone with his fist and then fell backwards out of the box, staggering like a drunk.

Unsteadily he made his way back towards Hanson's car. He'd noticed it as soon as he'd woken and had stumbled from the alley. Now the sight of it made his stomach turn; it waited in vain for its driver, but Hanson was nowhere to be found. Collapsing rather than sitting, Booker dropped to the curb beside the front right wheel and squeezed his eyes closed. Waves of vertigo assaulted him, but he desperately pushed them away.

He'd find Hanson. He'd fix this mess. He'd make Gavin pay. The fact that he had no idea where they'd gone was beside the point. _I know where to start looking_, he thought fiercely, conjuring up a mental image of Barry and focusing upon it until his brain hurt. The kid had been involved from the very beginning, even if he hadn't been aware of all the details. _He will talk_, Booker decided, hugging his coat tighter. _I'll make him talk_. He hated how much he was shaking, but couldn't seem to stop. The street was getting dark, and the neon _Betty's_ sign glowed like a beacon. He berated himself for being unconscious so long, for not anticipating Gavin's move, and for not getting the drop on the stupid bastard first. Hanson could be anywhere. Hanson could even be… dead.

_No_.

A cold breeze nipped at his back, bringing with it the smell of damp earth and grass from the park behind him. He could see the mouth of the alley, yawning in shadows across the street, mocking him. He began to rock, feeling anxious and uneasy. He tried to push the feeling down, but it was like an apple in water and it kept bobbing back up.

_God_.

Now wasn't the time to fall apart. It definitely wasn't the time to panic. He and Hanson had had their differences, but the truth of the matter was that they were partners_, _at least for this case, and partners watched each other's backs. _I'm going to sort this mess out_, he told himself firmly, desperate to chase away any doubts he had relating to his ability to do so. He stared hard at the darkening asphalt. He'd sort this mess out. He'd sort this mess out quite simply because there was no other option. He hunched his shoulders, clenching his jaw. He balled his hands into fists.

Five minutes ticked by, and it grew darker, and colder.

Suddenly there was the sound of an engine approaching, and Booker's eyes snapped up to the screech of tyres as a vehicle skidded to a stop beside him. Penhall's stony face leaned out of the driver's side window.

"Get in the car." It was less a request; more of an order.

Booker obeyed, hastily pushing himself upright and staggering to the passenger door, jerking it open and falling into the seat as Penhall stepped on the gas. They were moving before Booker had even closed his door, and his breath caught in his lungs as he struggled with his seatbelt.

"Answers," Penhall demanded, his eyes fixed dead ahead.

Booker heard the anger, and felt the fear radiating from Hanson's best friend. He swallowed roughly. He was angry, too. Penhall didn't need to hear excuses; he was after explanations, and solutions. "Five-fifteen, Eastern Street," he replied after a moment, injecting as much confidence as possible into the words. "Take this road to the end, turn left, and then first right. I'll direct you from there."

Penhall's knuckles were white. Booker tried to not notice.

"Is that where you think they've taken him?" Penhall asked.

Booker wished it was that simple. "No." He shook his head. "But it's a start. It's where Barry Stevenson lives."

"That's the kid Hanson was supposed to be meeting this afternoon?"

Booker jerked a nod. "Yeah." He resisted the urge to use the mirror to take a closer look at the gash on his forehead. "I think maybe he can help us."

They screamed around a corner, narrowly missing a parked car.

"You need to tell me everything," Penhall said hollowly.

Booker hardly felt like he knew enough as it was. But he nodded slowly. "We're going to find Hanson." The words seemed empty, but he offered them anyway, hoping they might mean something. "He's going to be okay."

They screamed around a second corner, burning through an amber light.

"I hope you're right," Penhall said, his voice tense.

They travelled another block and a half. Penhall gestured to the glove compartment. "Open it."

Booker pulled it open. It held a gun. He withdrew it and turned it over in his hands, nodding before slipping it into his belt.

"I haven't spoken to Fuller yet," Penhall admitted. "He was in a meeting." He paused. "He's gonna be pissed…" They shot through another amber light. "This could get messy."

Booker inhaled jaggedly. '_This could get messy_.' Shit, he almost laughed. Shaking his head grimly, he mumbled, "Jesus, it already is."

Penhall didn't reply, just muttered something under his breath and pressed harder on the gas. The car rocketed in and out of traffic as they shot along the street, breaking the very same road rules they'd been trained to enforce.

* * *

"_Excuse me_?"

Fuller was livid, absolutely fuming. He paced back and forth in a tight strip between the door of his office and his desk, his mind working furiously to process what Ioki had just told him.

It had been a shitty week. God, it had been an _awful_ week. And now something had happened to Hanson, and Penhall had run off without consulting him first; probably ready to shoot the first suspect he came across in an effort to get his partner back. _Didn't these kids understand discipline_? Most of the time Fuller felt like he was working with competent officers, but every now and then (like right at this moment) he felt as though he was working with a bunch of children. _Penhall should have known better, he should have consulted me first_.

Ioki shifted slightly, but otherwise showed very little in the way of discomfort.

_Such a balanced individual_, Fuller thought, eyeing the young Vietnamese officer with equal measures of respect and irritation. He exhaled sharply. "He didn't say where he was going?"

"To get Booker." The reply was steady. Honest.

"And he didn't explain what had happened?"

Ioki shook his head. "No, sir, I got the impression that there wasn't time."

_Wasn't time_? Fuller sucked back the urge to curse violently. From what he could gather, he had an officer missing, and another two charging head-long into what could potentially be a very dangerous situation. Rule number one was _never_ to do anything like that without requesting back-up. Penhall should _not_ have gone alone.

"_Damn it_!" He stopped pacing, running a hand over his hair and trying to think.

He knew that Hanson had been meeting Barry Stevenson that afternoon, but that the meeting had been marked as 'advantageous', not vital to the case. Booker had never checked in for his debriefing, but Mr Andrews from the Mayor's office had arrived unexpectedly before Fuller had been able to do anything about tracking Booker down. Had Booker's absence had something to do with whatever the hell had happened to Hanson? _Why_ hadn't Booker called him?

Fuller had been in a meeting; he'd diverted all his calls to the chapel's main phone line. _Oh that's just fucking brilliant_… He pursed his lips, forcing himself to calm down. Booker probably _had_ called him, but the call had gone through to Penhall.

He glanced at the clock. It was just after five. "Fifteen minutes," he stated firmly. If he hadn't heard from Penhall by then, well, he wasn't exactly sure what he'd do, but it wouldn't involve sitting around in his office. "He definitely said he'd call?"

Ioki hesitated. "Yes, sir." This time there was obvious uncertainty in his tone. Penhall hadn't made any promises.

_I should have their badges for this_. Fuller's anger boiled, yet beyond it there lurked another emotion; deep down, he was afraid, and worried for the safety of not only Hanson, but Penhall and Booker as well. He told himself he was furious with Penhall for leaving without telling him, but really, he understood it all too well. What made his officers so exceptional was the fact that they were not only work colleagues, but also very close friends. He couldn't have stopped Penhall from going after Hanson even if he'd tried. It would have been a fight he couldn't win. He just wished he knew more of what was going on, so he could do something about it.

"Fifteen minutes," he repeated, confirming the deadline and nodding to Ioki. He'd hunt down every damn kid they had on file for this case if he had to; he'd hunt them down and interrogate them if it turned out this was just another of their 'practical jokes'. In the meantime, he had to hope that the situation wasn't as dire as it appeared. He had to trust Penhall. Oh Lord, there was a notion.

"Shall I call Hoffs?" Ioki asked.

Fuller hesitated briefly, before nodding in approval. Yes, they needed back-up. They needed to be ready. "Hope for the best; prepare for the worst," he mumbled, turning into his office to grab his coat and weapon so that he was ready to run out the door.

He'd had a bad feeling about this case from the very beginning. He should have listened to his gut. _Let's just hope the worst case scenario isn't irreparable_, he thought anxiously, running through a collection of possible outcomes in his head. He didn't have all the facts. He wouldn't panic until he knew the full story.

Over-reacting would be unwise in this situation; yet under-reacting could be even more so.

"Let's just focus on getting Hanson back," he told Ioki, as he re-emerged from his office.

Once they were all back, he'd tear into Penhall. Until that point, however, all lectures would have to wait.

* * *

Seven minutes past five o'clock, a dark red Chevelle skidded to a halt outside a quaint timber cottage that was nestled in the foothills west of the city. The light was fading from the sky, and the air was crisp and cold. The doors of the vehicle burst open and two youths appeared; the larger of the two leaning back in to drag the limp form of another individual into view. A fourth figure emerged, descending the steps of the cottage and coming to meet them, a length of rope in his hand. Hastily they tied the arms and legs of their unconscious companion, before shuffling back up the steps and into the building. Nobody saw them; from the main road, the cottage couldn't be seen. They were as hidden as a white rabbit in the snow. And, as far as they were concerned, that was exactly how they wanted things to be.

* * *

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

_Apologies for the slow update- life has been... hectic, to say the least. Anyways, here's the next chapter, finally :0) Thanks soooooo much for all the absolutely lovely reviews. I wish I had a better response, but I never know what to say. Just knowing that there are people out there reading this really does mean the world. And when someone takes the time to leave a comment, it makes my day. So thanks again to all of you! Happy reading X_

_PS. I probably should put a **language warning** on this chapter. And possibly for the next chapter too. _

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

The vehicle mounted the curb and slammed down again as Penhall planted his foot on the brake and brought them to a standstill outside Barry Stevenson's house. Booker grunted as the motion threw him forward in his seat, but Penhall didn't give a shit and roughly elbowed open his door, trying unsuccessfully to launch himself from the car before he'd undone his seatbelt.

_Sonofabitch_… The seatbelt was wrenched free and he stumbled onto the asphalt, slamming the door and pushing his unruly hair from his brow before he rounded the vehicle. Booker followed, unfolding himself from the passenger seat with an air of stiffness and a slightly unsteady gait.

Penhall shot him a look. "Is this the place?"

Booker hesitated, swayed, and then looked up at the house. It was plain from his expression that he'd never been here before. "It's the address I remember from Barry's file," he said finally.

Penhall didn't reply. It was good enough. Ignoring his urge to ram the front door, he charged up the garden path and rapped a knuckle against the freshly painted white timber. A cute, hand-painted sign beside the door read '_welcome_', and his eyes wandered until they found the button for the doorbell, which he jabbed numerous times.

Booker waited beside him, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. He was still swaying, despite the fact that they were standing still.

_He needs a hospital_, Penhall thought, recalling but refusing to look at the injury he'd noticed earlier upon the taller man's brow. Any other situation and he'd take Booker straight to a medical centre; but today wasn't 'any other day', and he had a feeling Booker wouldn't go even if he was given the opportunity. Booker was stubborn, egotistical, and a right royal pain in the ass. But if there was one thing Penhall felt he could be sure of, it was that Booker wanted to find Hanson too. In order to do so, they needed to work together. "You good?" he grunted, eyeing his fellow officer suspiciously.

Booker didn't smile. He barely nodded. "I'm fine," was all he said. His voice was tense.

Penhall pounded the door once more. They waited, but the only sounds came from distant traffic and a handful of birds watching them from the trees. Penhall's impatience rose and he spun around, knuckles flexing. _God damn these manicured houses with their fucking white picket fences and their clipped rose bushes_. An angry couple of steps saw him trudging through a soft garden bed, craning his neck to peer through the nearest window. What if the kid wasn't home? Booker went the other way, checking out the window on the opposite side of the front door. Neither of them seemed ready to voice the concern. _We don't even have a plan B_, Penhall realized suddenly. Damn it, Hanson was stuck somewhere and with every second that ticked by, they had less and less chance of getting him back.

In a pocket between heartbeats, Penhall recalled the first time he'd met his best friend. Hanson had been clean-cut and by-the-book, uptight and uninteresting. Penhall's initial reaction to his partner had been _Do I seriously have to work with this guy_? But, despite first impressions, they'd hit it off, and eventually Hanson's annoying traits had become bearable. They'd spent so much time together over the past couple of years that they'd learned to overlook each other's differences. They had personal jokes, they knew how to stir each other up, and sometimes they even finished each other's sentences. The idea that they could be seriously injured or killed on a job wasn't one that they cared to entertain. Penhall knew, for his part, that it was a reality that lingered in the back of his mind like a shadow; but one that he never really looked at. Why on earth would he want to look at it? Even now, with Hanson missing and possibly already dead, he refused to look at it. _Life can't do that to me_, he thought, recalling how he'd lost the various members of his family. _Life can't take away every single person I've ever cared about_. And he did care about Hanson; as unmanly as it sounded. He held no doubt that if they failed to find Hanson alive, he'd fall apart… and possibly even shatter.

The glass was cold and lace curtains covered the window on the inside. It was infuriatingly impossible to see anything, and Penhall moved further along to a set of French doors, cupping his hands and peering into the gloom of the house. A rosebush snagged his jeans, and he swore loudly at the same time as Booker's voice rang out. Penhall pricked his finger trying to escape the clutches of the garden. Booker was moving now, running towards him. Finally Penhall made sense of what he was saying.

"… saw him go out the back door, come on!" For someone with a head injury, Booker sure moved fast.

Penhall leaped from the garden and scrambled across the lawn. Booker disappeared around the corner of the house and when Penhall followed, it was in time to see Booker vault over the tall fence and into the neighbour's yard. Skidding to a halt, he reversed his direction and shot back towards the street. He swung left and charged up the sloping front lawn of the property next door, ready to intercept Barry when the kid emerged.

Barry sprinted down the side of his neighbour's house, his eyes going as wide as saucer's as he caught sight of Penhall. He tripped over himself, trying to change direction. But Booker was right behind him.

Penhall didn't try to stop Barry. He didn't have to. With a lot more force than was probably necessary, Booker slammed into the kid, grabbing him around the middle and tackling him roughly to the ground.

Penhall slowed. Booker had Barry pinned on his stomach, the kid's face planted into the earth and his arms hooked behind his back. Booker's eyes rose, and Penhall nodded.

"Hi Barry," Booker hissed, leaning close to Barry's ear. "Remember me?" Without trying to be gentle, he jerked Barry into a sitting position.

Penhall stepped in front of the kid, holding his badge so that it was clear to see.

Booker spun Barry around and skewered him with a molten glare. "We need to talk," he stated, his tone fiery. He reached into his coat and withdrew his own badge. "You need to tell me what that fuck-head Gavin has done with my partner."

Barry's expression cracked, and then withered. He trembled violently.

"You need to start talking," Booker stated. "You need to start talking _right now_."

Penhall found that he was holding his breath. He was glad that Booker was the one holding Barry, because with all that had happened, he was ready to kill something, and Barry would probably be it.

* * *

Hanson was caught in a dream. He was six years old, sitting on his father's lap. His head was leaned back against his father's chest and they were beside the ocean, watching light bounce off the water as gulls twirled and squawked. The air was heavy with salt and the greasy smell of burgers and fries. They were sitting on a wooden bench; the sun warming the tops of their heads, and their shoes kicked off. It felt like they could sit forever. It felt like time itself had ceased to exist. It felt like there was nowhere else they had to be.

"Dad?" Hanson mumbled, raising his head.

His father's face was gentle, carved with lines that came from smiling; not stress. It was an honest face.

"Do you ever get scared?"

The gentleness never wavered. His father nodded, gathering Hanson into a tighter hug. The hug was warmer than the sun.

"If I never got scared," the older man said. "I wouldn't be human."

Hanson felt simple reassurance in the words. He closed his eyes.

"It's okay to be scared, son."

Hanson let his body relax. It really was okay.

Suddenly, he was jerked away and the dreamscape shattered. His eyes flung open and his mind was left reeling as the image of his father was replaced by a mass of confusing blurs of light and shadow. Frantically, he blinked water from his lashes and tried to clear his vision. His chest ached and he couldn't suck enough air into his lungs.

He was freezing, and dripping wet. As far as he could tell his limbs were tied and he was strapped to a chair in a sitting position. He was gagged. He shook his throbbing head, trying to unstick the hair that clung to his brow. He was in a room. It was dark apart from a single lamp that burned on a low table. There were three boys glaring at him. One of them held a dripping bucket. One of them was Gavin. Another was Andy. Hanson had no idea where they were, or how they'd got here.

The boy with the bucket stepped forward, snarling. "Hello princess." It wasn't a voice Hanson had ever heard before. "Do you know who I am?"

Hanson didn't know who he was. He didn't know much of anything at all. What had happened to Booker? What time was it? There were too many gaps in his memory.

Bucket-boy stepped closer still, his teeth flashing menacingly. Gavin and Andy stayed where they were, hovering.

"My name is Simon."

The breath against Hanson's ear was a burning hiss, and he wanted to pull away but couldn't. A strong hand clamped his jaw and tilted his face upwards.

Simon's eyes were dark and unforgiving. His expression was cold. "Simon says…"

Hanson swallowed convulsively. The dark-eyed boy grinned wickedly. Gavin snickered in the background.

"Simon says… you're in trouble."

And Hanson had a feeling that it wasn't a lie.

* * *

Booker's head was aching. He felt like it was about to split and spill his brains. He wasn't in the mood for Barry's cowardly whining. He wasn't in the mood for the harsh fluorescent light that burned above them as they stood in the colourful kitchen of Barry's house, trying to squeeze the kid for answers. Barry was sitting on one of the dining chairs, balled up like a frightened animal. Booker towered over him, and Penhall paced irritably back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The clock was ticking, and Booker couldn't help but worry that Hanson's time was running out. Gavin and Andy weren't known for taking detours. They'd waste no breath on pleasantries. Booker didn't know what they were planning to do with Hanson, but he was sure it wouldn't be good.

Barry whimpered again, and wrapped his arms around his torso. He looked like he was about to vomit. "I can't believe you're a cop," he blubbered.

Booker had had enough and stepped forward, seizing the kid's shoulders. Barry needed to wake the hell up. "You need to get over that," he spat. "Yes, I'm a cop. And yes, Tom's a cop. Get a grip on yourself before you piss your pants and for fuck's sake, start _talking _before I put you through a wall."

It was the wrong thing to say. Barry gagged and shook more violently. From behind him, Booker heard Penhall curse.

"Get out of the way, I'm gonna rip his teeth from his skull-"

Booker spun around in time to stop Penhall from charging their suspect. As much as they both wanted to take their anger out on the kid, they had to follow the rules; at least, _most_ of the rules. "Just… give me a second," he begged, and Penhall growled some more before finally backing away.

Again Booker turned to Barry. He knelt down, so that he was on the kid's level. "Listen to me," he stated firmly.

Barry refused to make eye contact.

Booker gripped the chair and jerked it so that Barry was looking right at him.

There was a tense moment, in which Barry fidgeted and breathed jaggedly through his nose, his nostrils flaring.

Booker took a steadying breath. His muscles twitched with the need to pound something; preferably the boy in front of him. But he resisted. "You're in a lot of trouble, my friend," he said stiffly.

Barry flinched.

"Now, I'm guessing your parents will be home soon, and I doubt they'll be too impressed to find their sweet, innocent son being interrogated by the police."

Barry swallowed roughly, his eyes flicking to Penhall.

"An officer is missing, Barry." Booker's words were so heavy that they threatened to sink through the floor. "I don't have to tell you how serious this is, or how much shit you're sitting in. I think you know." He leaned closer. "And I also think you know what we want to hear._ Where_ have Gavin and Andy taken Tom?"

Barry began to shake his head.

But Booker's reaction was lightening-quick, and his hand shot out to cup Barry's chin. Barry could no longer shake his head. "Don't give me that bullshit."

Penhall's patience was at breaking point. "Seriously Booker, step aside and I'll get the answer out of him. We're wasting time."

Perhaps Barry realized that he _was_ in grave danger of having his teeth ripped from his skull. He opened his mouth, babbling incoherently at first; the words broken and tumbling from his lips. Booker released his hold and the words finally took shape.

"M-my parents…" Barry stuttered.

Booker stood up, listening intently. "What about them?"

Barry's voice was so small it was embarrassing. "Th-they have a c-cottage, about forty-five minutes out of town." His teeth chattered as he spoke.

Penhall was upon him before Booker could intervene. "Is that where they've taken Hanson? Tell me, damn it-"

"I-I-I-I-I think so!" Barry was obviously terrified of the larger officer.

If Booker wasn't so angry he might have felt sorry for the kid. "How do you know that? Were you involved?" The questions were like darts, and Barry flinched at every syllable.

Penhall was like a bull, and he was seeing red. "If they've hurt him, so help me…"

Booker shoved Penhall aside. "_Barry_!" He said firmly, willing the kid to focus. "You need to tell us _right now_ where this cottage is."

Barry's head was bowed, his shoulders hunched. Sobs racked his skinny frame. "I-I didn't know," he admitted, his words full of shame. "Gavin didn't tell me what they wanted the keys for. I-I didn't know you guys were cops. I just wanted them to like me..." He lifted his red-rimmed eyes. "I'm sorry if they hurt you, I didn't know they were going to do this, I swear!"

Booker bit his lip, reaching forward and snagging Barry's shirt. He hoisted the kid up from the chair. "You're coming with us."

"M-My parents will kill me," Barry stated breathlessly, stumbling over his own feet as Booker dragged him towards the front door.

"They're the least of your concerns," Penhall snarled. And then he said to Booker, "You get him in the car. I'll ring Fuller and let him know where we're headed."

Booker spun Barry to face Penhall. "Tell him the address," he demanded.

Barry obeyed.

Penhall disappeared to find a phone and Booker continued to haul Barry.

"Pull the door closed behind you when you leave-" Barry called back to Penhall. "Hey, you're gonna tear my shirt," he grumbled to Booker.

But Booker couldn't care less. Once they reached the car he all but threw Barry inside. "Try to run and I'll tear your legs off." He slammed the door and let himself in the front passenger side.

Once he sat down, his head throbbed even harder and a wave of vertigo brought black to the edges of his vision. He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, before turning to face the pale figure in the back seat. "And just for the record," he said, his voice raw. "If anything's happened to Hanson-" He nodded back towards the house. "My friend there wont be the one you'll have to look out for." He paused to let his words sink in.

Barry paled even further.

Booker returned his gaze frontwards and leaned his aching head back against the seat. He stared hard at twilight sky. "It'll be me."

* * *

Hanson couldn't believe this was happening. His cheek stung from Simon's last blow and his wrists were raw from the prickly rope that dug into them. He knew who Simon was now. Simon's older brother Tyson had been the leader of a gang who'd been busted for dealing drugs and firearms, back in October last year. Hanson had been planted in the school alone and had been responsible for Tyson ending up behind bars. It wasn't a case that had stuck in Hanson's mind, nor was it one that had been particularly long-winded or eventful. But, obviously, it had meant a huge upheaval in Simon's life; one that the impressionable young man hadn't forgotten. Hanson had often wondered how the actions of the kids he'd busted had affected the families involved. He'd often hoped that any siblings like Simon would have learned from their brother's or sister's mistakes. Obviously, he'd been disastrously wrong.

"You cops," Simon declared. "You're _pigs_." He turned and spat on the floor.

Hanson was shaking. The cold air inside the cottage was clinging to his wet shirt.

"You know _nothing_, yet you think you know _everything_."

"Damn straight," Gavin grunted. He was perched upon the arm of a couch. "Fucking jackass know-it-alls. You came to our school thinking you'd bust us. But you were wrong."

Hanson's eyes wandered about the room; sizing it up, assessing his situation. Things looked pretty grim.

"You come along and you interfere, but you have no idea what's really going on." Simon's paused in front of the lamp, his large frame silhouetted against the light. He was as beefy as Andy was tall. "You know _nothing_ about family. You know _nothing_ about honour." He turned and kicked at the couch and Gavin barely managed to suppress a startled flinch. "You don't _know_ what it's like to have to support your family because your old man's a fucking drunk and your mother's a loony from being belted so many God damn times by the man she married." His eyes bored into Hanson's. "I bet you had a perfect upbringing. I bet your mummy tucked you into bed and your daddy took you to baseball games. You wouldn't _understand_ why my brother did the things he did, because I bet your family always had food and money. You probably thought your daddy was a hero." He paused, before adding, "I've heard about him, you know."

Hanson's stomach had clenched at the mention of his father. Now he just felt sick.

"This city thought he was a hero, too." Simon's tone was mocking; nasty. "But he was a pig, just like you. He was _scum_. And he died like a coward."

Something inside Hanson snapped. He wanted to yell at Simon to shut the hell up, but the sour gag in his mouth prevented him from doing so. All he managed was to rattle the chair.

Simon threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, you're so _pathetic_." The light brought a sickly glow to his ugly features and shadows pooled around his sunken eyes. He turned to Gavin and Andy. "Isn't he pathetic?"

They nodded, like trained dogs; Gavin's features cracked into a measured smile while Andy's stony expression remained as lifeless as ever.

Hanson's breath came jaggedly through his nose. He wanted to take Simon around the throat and squeeze until his fingers broke. He wanted to punch the ugliness from Simon's features and rearrange his face until he was unrecognizable. He wanted to _hurt_ something, because he was so desperately panicked about being so vulnerable and alone. His eyes kept darting to the doorway of the room, and he found himself unconsciously hoping that Penhall or Booker would burst in. He'd never been one to pray, but he was beginning to think that perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea. He saw the fire in Simon's eyes. He knew there wasn't going to be a happy ending to this story.

"You make me sick," Simon stated, stepping forward and catching Hanson across the jaw with a heavy blow.

The impact was so great that it sent the chair backwards, and before Hanson knew what was happening, the back of the chair hit the timber floor with a crack, jarring his hips and shoulders. He squeezed his eyes closed and let out a groan. When he opened them again, his vision swam for a moment. Simon was over him; a dark shape against the backdrop of the high ceiling. Hanson couldn't do anything but blink back. His ankles were bound, but as far as he could tell they weren't tied to the chair legs. The impact with the floor had loosened the rope that passed around his chest and shoulders and the back of the chair. He focused on the rope around his wrists. If he could loosen it as well, he might have a chance to break free.

Simon seized his shoulders and threw him upright again.

Hanson's teeth smashed together as the chair legs slammed down upon the floor. _God, he's going to give me whiplash_… Again his vision swam. As subtly as he could, he moved his shoulders, making sure that the rope around his chest was still loose.

Simon appeared before him.

"So," Gavin said, glaring at Hanson but directing his words to Simon. "What are we going to do with him?"

It was clear that Simon was the 'head honcho' of this whole operation. Hanson returned Gavin's glare, refusing to be intimidated. _You can go to hell_, he thought bitterly, resting his gaze a moment longer on the school bully before returning it to Simon.

Simon didn't turn to look at Gavin. He remained where he was, looming over Hanson. His expression betrayed no fear. He was a kid who felt he had nothing to lose. "We teach him a lesson," he stated, his tone definite.

Hanson stared back into Simon's soulless eyes. God, what wretched life had made him this way? Hanson struggled with his emotions, desperately drawing upon his training and what he'd been instructed to do in situations like this. _The books make it sound so easy_. The books said nothing about how to deal with fear.

And Hanson was afraid, no matter how hard he tried to hold it together. He hoped like hell his friends were on their way, and that they would find him before Simon dealt him a blow that he couldn't wake up from. But he couldn't assume they knew where he was. He couldn't even assume Booker was alive. People died from head injuries all the time, and the last he'd seen of Booker, his temporary partner had been bleeding and unconscious upon the ground.

His thoughts drifted to Penhall. They'd planned to catch up this weekend. Sickeningly, his stomach turned. They probably wouldn't get to.

In fact, it was possible he'd never see his best friend again.

"What sort of a lesson?" Gavin asked eagerly.

As a response, Simon just grinned.

* * *

Ioki had a map sprawled across his lap, and he struggled to read it in the dim light as the car he was in flew along a road that would lead them out of the city. Hoffs and Fuller were in the front, throwing conversation back and forth. The atmosphere in the vehicle was tense and heavy. Fuller was in a frightening mood, and Hoffs sat stiff in her seat with an anxious and troubled expression painted across her normally calm features. Ioki had looked up the address of the cottage as soon as Penhall had given it to them. It was isolated and out-of-the-way, and a perfect location for a bunch of goons wanting to avoid detection. He was worried about Hanson. He was worried that something terrible was going to happen to him. Perhaps they were already too late…

With a shake of his head, he wiped the thought from his mind.

They'd find Hanson. They'd get the guys who did this. Penhall and Booker were already a good ten minutes ahead. It had been less than an hour since Booker had called to say that Hanson had been taken. In some situations, and hour was a long time. But it only took a second to kill someone…

Again Ioki shook his head. _No_. Hanson was not dead. And as far as he was concerned, his friend and fellow officer was _not_ going to die tonight. Not if they could help it.

He glanced out the window. The moon was rising; a yellow orb shivering into view above the lowest buildings. Fuller's dark eyes flicked to meet his in the rear-view mirror. Ioki pulled himself straighter and nodded. Stiffly, Fuller nodded back.

They'd find Hanson.

And he would be just fine.

* * *

_tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

_For anyone who didn't see the note on my profile- I'm sorry but I've been sick and haven't been able to write much. This story isn't on pause, it'll just take a little longer than I originally planned. Here's the next bit, after what seems like forever. Thanks for sticking with me if you're still reading :)_

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

_"We're gonna teach him a lesson in pain_."

Even now, half a dozen heavy punches after Simon had announced Hanson's fate, the words of the angry young man echoed in Hanson's thoughts with just as much hostility and venom as they had when they'd originally been uttered.

_"You'll learn what it is to feel broken and defeated, just like I did when you locked my brother away."_

There was blood running down Hanson's left cheek; he could feel it dripping off his jaw and taste it upon his parched lips. His eyes were watering, though he was sure he wasn't crying. It made it difficult to see, but every now and then he caught a glimpse of Gavin and Andy. They sat, like spectators watching a boxing match; or puppets, tossed upon the sidelines. Vaguely Hanson wondered whether they minded being used like this. Obviously Simon was the one having all the fun, and Gavin and Andy were only there for convenience.

The next punch landed lower, bruising his already sore ribs. The air left Hanson's lungs and he would have doubled over if he'd been able to, but because of the rope around his chest, he couldn't move. Black threatened to overwhelm him. Stubbornly he pushed it away. As hopeless as his situation seemed, he wasn't ready to roll over just yet. Subtly, he was loosening the rope that bound his wrists. If he managed to stay conscious long enough, he might be able to fight back.

"Having fun, are we?" Simon was sickly amused.

Hanson bit harder on the gag in his mouth. Even if he died trying to escape, it would be worth it just to be able to throw something back at his tormentor. Simon needed to be put in his place; his ego was far too big for an already crowded room like this one.

Just then, a merciful distraction came their way.

"You're not gonna kill him, are you?"

So, Gavin had an opinion after all. _And here was I calling him a puppet_, Hanson thought. Simon turned his attention upon Gavin, while Hanson used the moment to jerk the rope around his wrists. He felt warm blood dribbling over his hands but it didn't faze him. What were a few deep grazes in comparison to another wave of agonizing blows from Simon's steel-knuckled fists? He jerked harder.

"I don't remember asking you," Simon replied gruffly.

Gavin's expression wavered between uncertainty and frustration. He was used to being the leader of his own little group. This had to hurt his pride. "It just seems a waste, that's all," he said levelly. "I mean, we could ransom him, or something. Get some cash. Get a plane ticket out of here."

Simon was a ball of rage. "That's not why I wanted you to bring him here!"

Gavin leaned back slightly, surprisingly managing to keep his cool, though his fists balled.

"It never works out that way. God, you're such a fucking moron-" Simon's back was to Hanson, and Andy's eyes were on the two boys. "No, he has to be taught a lesson. His life ends tonight, just like mine ended the day he busted Tyson. This is for my _brother_. You'll get your cash later. This is _my _fight now. If you're thinking about interfering, I'll be happy to finish you off as well."

_What a jerk_, Hanson thought, noting that Gavin was probably thinking the same. Andy didn't seem to have an opinion- not that that was surprising- and he sat, regarding his two friends with mild interest. Gavin squared his shoulders, but didn't push the matter further. _See, that's the difference between you and me_, Hanson thought, watching Gavin's rigid features. Simon was trying to intimidate them both, but, unlike Gavin, Hanson was ready to do something about it. He wasn't ready to die, and he sure as hell wasn't about to take any more punches from someone so delusional. _Come on, turn back around, you bastard_…

Finally, Simon gave up on Gavin and returned his interest to his captive. Only, Hanson's wrists weren't bound anymore; the rope was in his lap. In one fluid movement he pushed to his feet, bringing the chair up with him. His ankles were still bound and he wobbled slightly, but he managed to swing the chair around and smash its legs against Simon whilst pushing the ropes up and over his shoulders.

The chair shattered. Simon cried out and fell against Gavin, who'd sprung from the couch. Hanson threw himself across the room in the direction of an open doorway, half-hopping, half-falling into the next room. Adrenalin charged his limbs as he hit the floor and rolled onto his back, planting his boots into Andy's groin as the hulk attempted to come after him. Andy buckled with a pained grunt and stumbled backwards, as Gavin and Simon fought their way out of their tangle. Hanson twisted and caught the door with his boots, slamming it closed and hurling himself at the handle. He managed to lock it just a split second before a body smashed against it, and then immediately set upon destroying the ropes that bound his ankles.

There was blood on his fingers, but he couldn't care about it right now. This was his only chance to escape, and he wasn't going to waste it. These boys were armed and there was probably only another twenty seconds before one of them made it around the side of the cottage and smashed through the window. The ropes came free, and Hanson was on his feet. No time to search for a phone. The door cracked with the splitting force of a torrent of bullets. It was time to go.

He threw himself at the window, not even thinking that they mightn't be on the ground floor. Arms over his face he shattered the cold glass and dropped like a rock to the gentle grassy slope below. There were shouts from somewhere, but Hanson had no sense of direction. He rolled, over and over, feeling the sting of glass splinters catching at his skin through his clothes. The pain was a background disturbance; there was only survival, or death. The ground disappeared abruptly, and he was falling through bushes down a steep, jagged bank. Rocks and tree roots pounded him like Simon's fists; but they weren't Simon's fists, so that was okay.

He dropped. He hit shallow water with a rough and painful splash. Adrenalin kept him moving. He staggered, out of the water and up into the deepest shadows along the bank.

The night was thick. He was sweating, and breathless. His lungs burned. He fell to his knees. Somewhere, above him, the other boys cursed and swore, and a burst of angry bullets shot into the darkness. Rich, damp earth caked itself upon his bloody cheeks as he crumpled over, toppling into the dirt.

He was going to die. He was going to die…

_No_, he was _not_ going to die.

Trembling all over, he pushed himself upright again. They had to have come by road. If he could find that road, perhaps he'd live to see the morning; if he wasn't captured first.

Staggering, he stumbled along the bank, being careful not to step in the water lest he make too much noise. He was numb, and bleeding, but he didn't have time to worry about that just yet. He tuned his ears in to the sounds around him, listening for the hum of traffic.

But the night was silent. The only sounds were his uneven footfalls, and the bass drum of his heart hammering in his chest.

* * *

Gavin had underestimated Tom Hanson. He'd known the cop wasn't one to be messed with, but he hadn't truly believed all that Simon had said about the guy; at least, not until now. Now he was just pissed off. Somehow they'd let Tom escape, and now they were out with their guns and flashlights, sprinting through the trees, splitting up so that they could cover more ground. The night was frozen, and inky shadows hid rocks and ditches deep enough to break their ankles. Gavin hated the countryside. He hated how dark and unforgiving it was. Anything could be lurking out there in the surrounding forests. It was an unpredictable environment; and he _hated _anything unpredictable.

This had all been Simon's fault. Simon acted so tough but he was obviously nothing more than a child seeking revenge for something that had happened to his family. Fuck that. This involved all of them. Gavin and Andy had done the hard work getting Tom here, so it wasn't fair that Simon called all the shots. They'd kidnapped a cop, for fuck's sake. They should be making phone calls, broadcasting to TV stations and demanding money. They should be milking the situation for all it was worth.

A raised tree root caught his boot, and Gavin went sprawling. Dirt gritted against his teeth as he pulled himself upright, spitting and cursing. This had been _Simon's_ fault, not his. If they didn't get Tom back, Simon would be dead. It had been a mistake trusting the older boy in the first place. _I let my guard down_, he reflected bitterly, breaking into a jog once again. The beam of his flashlight danced along the ground, swinging into the surrounding trees every now and then as he searched for any signs of the cop they'd lost.

"I can't _believe_ we lost him_,_" he muttered breathlessly, pausing to do a quick three-sixty.

Their chances of finding Tom were growing slimmer each second. With any luck, the dive out of the window would have injured the officer enough to slow him down, and, coupled with the beating Simon had delivered, well… perhaps Tom was already dead. _Now that would suck_. Trying to ransom a dead cop would be useless as hell. _I want my money_. After all, it had been hard work so far. The game couldn't be over that easily.

Abruptly, he halted his steps. The beam of his flashlight dropped until it illuminated the ground around his feet, and he chewed his lip, thinking. _He_ had to be the one to find Tom. If he found Tom, then the cards would be in his hands, and the decision making would be up to him. Simon's arguments would count for nothing. He had to be smart. He had to _think_ like a cop. What would Tom do, and where would he be running?

There were two options that Gavin could figure. Tom would either head for the road, which was a good distance away, or circle back and attempt to locate a phone in the cottage so that he could call for help. Simon and Andy would be running wildly, searching randomly without sense or direction. The chances of either of those meat-heads considering the possibility that Tom might head back to the cottage were quite slim. Would Tom think so too? The cottage was closer. It wouldn't take two seconds for Gavin to check it out before heading for the road.

Grinning at his own cleverness, Gavin turned and began jogging back the way he'd come. They'd left a single light burning in the cottage, and within a moment it shivered into view, seeping dully through the trees. Gavin switched off his flashlight, being sure to step carefully. He'd prowl around the perimeter, and then approach it from the rear. If Tom was in there, he'd catch him. _Like trapping a rabbit in a cage_, he thought, and quickly scurried through the shadowy trees around to the back of the building.

* * *

Penhall had cut the ignition and headlights just as the cottage had come into view. He'd pulled the car off the dirt drive and had parked it so that it was semi-concealed in the shadows of the trees. He stepped out, closing the door gently. His knuckles burned from the iron grip he had on his gun. From the passenger side, Booker straightened and did a quick scan of their surroundings.

"Wait, you're not just gonna leave me in here, are you?" Barry's squeaky question rose from the back seat and drifted through Booker's still-open door.

Penhall didn't even look at the kid, though his eyes narrowed to slits in response.

Booker did the talking. "Keep quiet. And yes, we're going to leave you here."

Barry went to argue, but Penhall was in no mood to hear it. A faint light caught his attention as it bobbed through the trees to their left. _A flashlight_. It was far enough away that its owner shouldn't be able to see them, but he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. He nodded to Booker.

"I see it," Booker replied, looking in the same direction.

"And you have no idea how many of them there could be?" Penhall asked the question, though he already knew the answer. They'd been over everything they knew about the situation on the drive here; and they'd decided that they didn't know nearly enough.

Booker shook his head. "Gavin, Andy. They're the two who took Hanson."

Two on two; the odds were even. That was, so long as there was nobody else. Barry had said that he didn't think there was anybody else. But then, Barry was as useful as… With a pang of sadness, Penhall recalled Hanson lifting the little soldier figurine that sat upon his desk and comparing it to Barry. It was one of the last memories he had of his best friend. Lifting his eyes, he stared up the drive towards the cottage. Was Hanson inside? Was he even still alive? They were wasting what little time they had.

Booker shifted, his features betraying his impatience. "Wait for Fuller?"

They both knew the answer to that. It was now or never.

"You check out who owns that flashlight, and what the hell they're doing," Penhall instructed. "I'll head towards the house."

"You think it's wise to split up?"

Of course it wasn't.

Booker seemed to get the hint.

"Cuff the kid." Penhall shot a look through the window, and saw the whites of Barry's eyes flicker in his direction.

"What? No!" Barry struggled as Booker leaned in and pinned him down then cuffed him to his safety belt. The belt could stretch, but there was no way Barry could go far, even if he made it out of the vehicle.

"Now be a good boy, we'll be back soon." Booker locked and closed the door. His eyes met Penhall's. "You sure this is gonna work?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

Booker's dark eyes turned darker; more resolute. "You watch your back then. I'll meet you at the cottage. Don't get your ass shot."

"You look after your own ass; I'll take care of mine." Penhall stepped away from the car, sticking to the deep shadows along the drive. The cottage was a dark shape that hunched in the distance, vaguely outlined by the night sky and the branches of trees. _I'm coming_… He sent his thoughts in what he hoped was Hanson's direction.

From behind him, Booker paused. Penhall felt the taller man's eyes upon his back, but he didn't turn around. There was nothing Booker could say to make this situation any better. They'd either find Hanson in time, or… they'd be too late. It was as simple as that. Life; or death. Penhall kept on walking, swallowing his fear. It would do him no good to be afraid. It would do Hanson no good. The gun was a cold weight in his hands as he held it before him.

_Ready or not_, he thought, eyeing the cottage. _Here I come_.

* * *

Hanson was in bad shape. Every inch of his body ached and his chest burned with every breath that hitched into and out of his lungs. Each step sent tremors racing up his legs, and his back felt like it was about to snap in two. All he wanted was to lie down and go to sleep. The ground was icy cold, but that didn't bother him. He was sure anything would be better than remaining upright. He was so exhausted. He just wanted to sit down…

Shaking his head sharply, he attempted to knock some sense into his muddled brain. _Stop it with the crazy thoughts_, he chided. Thoughts like that would get him killed. But he'd been stumbling around for what seemed like hours, though it had probably only been minutes. He hadn't heard a single car, which meant that the road either wasn't close, or it was so deserted that it was barely worth finding at all. Clutching at the trunk of a tree, he halted his steps.

_The cottage_. The cottage probably had a phone, and the boys would no doubt be scouring the surrounding forest looking for him; they probably wouldn't expect him to head back there. He could stick to the shadows, and sneak in from the back. Even if one of the boys had stayed behind, it was better fighting one on one than attempting to take on all three of them, especially in his condition. It was worth a shot. _It might be my only shot_… As it appeared, they were in the middle of freakin' nowhere. _And I was thinking it would be nice to head into the mountains for a holiday_. Now the thought just made him sick. He'd never wanted to be back at work so much in all his life. Even with Fuller acting the way he was lately.

Picking up his feet, his thoughts, and what was left of his sanity, Hanson turned his steps back in the direction of the cottage. At least, he hoped it was the direction of the cottage. Truth be told, he had no idea where he was in relation to the building, but with any luck, he'd find it again. He'd been travelling downhill, so logic said that it had to be uphill. _Uphill it is then_. God, his legs ached. It suddenly dawned on him that he needed a weapon, and he searched the ground as he went, eventually finding a thick stick with jagged bits sticking out its sides. It wasn't a gun, but it would do. _Beggars can't be choosers_. Isn't that what his mother had always said? He wondered what she would say, if she knew he was in this situation now.

He stumbled, almost fell; caught himself in time. She'd tell him to find a way out, find a way to survive. She'd scold him, if she knew he'd been thinking of giving up. If he lay down, he'd be as good as dead. _And dead men have no futures_. They couldn't listen to advice from their mothers, or have a beer at the bar with their best friends. Hanson didn't want to be a dead man.

He picked up his pace, and continued up the hill.

_I'm not dying_, he told himself. _Not like this. Not tonight_. _Not any time soon_.

* * *

Booker picked his way through the dark undergrowth. Tree trunks and low branches conspired to trip him, but somehow he managed to stay upright. He was focused on catching the owner of the bobbing flashlight, and moved as silently as possible down the slope in pursuit. Cold, damp air rose from the forest floor and kissed his flushed cheeks, and the gash on his forehead stung and throbbed. More than once, during their drive here, he'd thought he was going to pass out, but he'd managed to hold onto reality and keep himself conscious. He didn't have time to be worrying about his grievances; Hanson's life was on the line. And, deep down, he felt a massive responsibility for that.

_You didn't have his back_, his thoughts kept repeating. _You should have seen this coming. You failed him_. He tried to shut them up, but he couldn't turn them off. They were like a record on repeat. _Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault_…

Somehow, he was always screwing things up.

He drew nearer to his target, and was able to make out the faint outline of a tall, oafish-looking young man. _Bingo_. That there was Andy, no doubt about it. Booker felt anger well in the pit of his churning stomach, recalling the last time he'd seen Andy and how Andy had been holding Hanson around the neck, choking him. His grip tightened on his weapon, and he quickened his pace. Andy was so thick he probably hadn't even sensed Booker's presence. Booker could march right on up to him, flash his badge and place him under arrest. Kidnapping a police officer; now that was a pretty heavy charge. Not to mention if Hanson was injured, or worse. Scaring Andy with possible sentences and dead-ends for the future would be a piece of cake, but… it wouldn't be very fun.

Booker wanted to release some of the frustration tingling across his knuckles, and right now he had the perfect opportunity to do that. _Why do things the nice way when you can throw a few punches_? Despite his pounding head, he opted for the nastier, messier plan of action, and crept closer to Andy, all but breathing down the guy's neck. When he was about five feet away, he cleared his throat. Andy flinched, and spun around.

In the dim light, Booker imagined his smile must have looked comical. It certainly felt like a joke. "His there," he chirped. "I've come to join the party."

Andy hesitated a moment, before recognition dawned upon his features and he jerked his weapon.

But Booker wasn't there for a fire fight. He ducked, and charged like a bull. The tackle was perfect, and if they'd been playing football the girls would have gone wild. The gun flew from Andy's hand as the two of them hit the ground. The impact jarred Booker's neck, and sent his aching mind spinning at an even faster pace. "You rotten morons," he grunted breathlessly. "You didn't seriously think you could come up here and have all the fun without inviting me?"

Andy's fists flew, but they failed to meet their target. "Gerrof me!" He boomed, trying to wrestle his attacker.

Booker swung at Andy's jaw, connected, and then swung again. The flashlight had fallen a few feet away, and was shining a beam of light into the trees, leaving the boys in near-darkness.

"Wishing you'd finished me off?" Booker growled.

Andy just struggled some more, and batted at Booker's ribs.

_Stupid oaf_. Booker fumed. He was taking a beating, but his anger spurred him on. "How-" _punch_, "-dare-" _punch, _"-you-"_ punch_, "-think-" _punch_, "-you-" _punch,_ "-can treat my partner like that-" _punch, punch, punch_, "-and get away with it-" _punch_-

Andy's arms were over his bloodied face now. "…Stop… Please…"

Booker's fist came down for another strike, but halted mid-air. He was sitting on Andy's legs, pinning the boy to the frozen earth. Both of their chests were heaving, and there was sweat beading across Booker's brow. He regarded the boy beneath him, and slowly the red faded from the edges of his vision. His head swam, but he steadied himself.

"Wh-what do you mean… your partner?" Andy was gulping down mouthfuls of air. His eyes were beady, too close together, like peas. They were dull and barely visible.

Booker's lip twitched, and he took a moment to catch his own breath. His badge was in his hand, and he pressed it into Andy's face. "You're smart," he said hoarsely. "You put the pieces together." It may have been dark, but Booker noticed (with satisfaction) the colour drain from Andy's cheeks. "This is bad news for you, my friend."

Andy made a sound that was barely human.

"The best thing for you to do right now," Booker continued, "is to tell me where Tom Hanson is." He lowered his voice. "And you'd better hope like hell he's still alive, or so help me, I'll shoot you right now." The tip of his gun introduced itself to Andy's forehead, and there was a very tense, very heavy silence.

Finally, Andy gave up the fight. "He… got away." It was a reluctant admission.

Booker's rattled brain took a moment to process the words and their subsequent meaning. "_What?_"

"W-we had him, up at the cottage. But he got away."

Booker smirked. _Nice work, Hanson_. He shook his head. "Who's '_we'_? You and Gavin?"

Andy hesitated a moment, and then nodded. "The cop- uh, your partner- he got away, and we came out to find him." There was a pause. "He threw himself through a window."

Booker scowled. _Well that's just fucking brilliant_. Penhall had gone up to the cottage in the hopes that they'd find Hanson there, but if what Andy was saying was true, Hanson could be anywhere. He needed to find Penhall, and they needed to find Gavin; fast.

"Right," he said, grabbing Andy by the front of his shirt. "On your feet, come on."

Andy emitted a series of muffled grunts. "Where are we going? Hey-!"

Booker hauled Andy off the ground. Andy may have outmatched Booker earlier, but this time Booker had a lot more to be pissed off about and his anger was giving him strength. _Mind over matter_, he told himself. His body would punish him afterwards. With his weapon trained on the thug before him, he nodded in the direction of the car. "Walk."

A shadow crossed Andy's features. It was the most emotion Booker had ever seen from the boy. "I'm not a fucking dog."

Booker jabbed the gun into Andy's massive bicep and bent to retrieve the flashlight. "You could have fooled me. Now_ pick up your_ _feet_ before I shoot them off and hand them to you." God, it was just like babysitting. _These kids need a severe lesson in discipline. _They'd find the car, he'd cuff Andy to one of the door handles with the spare set of cuffs in the glove compartment, and then he'd head towards the cottage. Hopefully Barry was alright and hadn't done anything stupid, like strangling himself whilst attempting to escape; although… Booker grinned. That wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing.

Unsteadily they began their march back towards the car. Booker was glad that Andy was in the lead, because his head was throbbing so much that he could barely walk in a straight line. _Wouldn't want to give him the impression that he could knock me out with one punch_, he thought grimly. His vision blurred, and again he swallowed the urge to be sick_. _As much as he hated to admit it, right now, in his condition, one hit would be all it'd take.

* * *

Penhall had found the cottage, and had circled it once. It was dark apart from a single light burning in one of the front rooms, giving him the impression that the place was empty. The front door was too exposed, perched at the top of a short flight of steps and opening onto a small veranda. He avoided it and went around the back, to where the shadows were deeper. Flicking the safety off his weapon, he pressed his back to the wall beside the back door and listened intently. All was deathly quiet.

A moment went by, and when Penhall was sure that there was no one waiting on the other side of the door to catch him by surprise, he tried the handle and was startled to find it unlocked. The door opened easily, and creaked only slightly as he pushed it with his left hand, swinging his weapon ahead of him to greet any occupants. The room he stepped into was filled with darkness, but otherwise was empty. It was a store room, and from what Penhall could see, it led into the cottage's kitchen. If his eyes weren't already adjusted to the blackness, he would have been walking blind.

Heart hammering and palms sweaty, he made his way into the gloom. His ears strained against the silence and his breathing seemed awfully loud, but nothing else stirred. He slipped through the doorway to the kitchen, and moved along a row of cupboards, past the sink. A single drop of water fell from the faucet and shattered the silence, causing his breath to hitch. In any other situation, he would have laughed at how jumpy he was. But this was serious, and there was no time for laughter. It didn't sound like anyone was home, which meant that he wasn't any closer to finding Hanson.

The cottage wasn't large, so it didn't take him long to check out each room. When he discovered the smashed chair and the ropes in the lounge room, and the drops of blood and shattered window in the adjoining room, his stomach did a sharp dip. The blood was fresh, and from the looks of the upturned furniture and bullet holes through a door, a heavy struggle had taken place. He shuffled to the broken window and peered through the jagged, gaping hole. Cold night air crept into the cottage through the opening. Someone had either dived through the glass, or they'd been thrown. There was glass on the ground outside, so they'd been exiting the house, not the other way around. Had Hanson escaped his captors? That would explain why no one was home. His thoughts immediately went to Booker, and the person they'd seen with the flashlight travelling through the forest. Had Hanson escaped, and caused his captors to flee the cottage in pursuit of him? Penhall was moving back the way he'd come before he'd even completed the thought. _Damn it all_, he cursed.

He hurried through the kitchen, and towards the back door. He didn't notice the figure distorted by shadows waiting for him as he approached the doorway. There was a shift in the air beside him, and a fraction of a second was all the notice he had before something smashed against his upper back, knocking him to the floor. He grunted, startled, and his attacker took the moment to strike him again, this time in the ribs. _He's using a lamp_, Penhall realized, catching a glimpse of the porcelain base and the fitting for a light bulb as it swung once again in his direction. He'd dropped his gun, but… _Lamps have cords_. Without another thought, he whirled around and caught the base of the lamp, snagging the dangling cord with his fingers and whipping it around his attacker's neck. With all his strength he pulled, and jerked whoever it was off their feet. There was a crash as they both fell to the floor, and Penhall's hand searched wildly until his fingers curled around his weapon once again. In the darkness he could just make out a face, and he recognized it from the photos Hanson had shown him when the case had just been opened. _So this is Gavin_, he thought fiercely, glaring down at the struggling young man. He pulled his badge from his pocket and flipped it open, the silver catching the light.

"You're under arrest, buddy," he declared, forcing his breathing back under control, "For assaulting a police officer. And for whatever the hell you've done to my partner."

Gavin glared back, ripping the cord from his throat and doubling over in a fit of coughing.

Penhall barely gave him the time to recover. "You need to tell me where Tom Hanson is, and you need to tell me _right now_."

Gavin showed some teeth.

Penhall seized him by the collar and shook as hard as he could. "What the _hell_ have you done with him? I don't have time for any guessing games!"

"I don't know where he is," Gavin finally spat. He attempted to slither away, but Penhall gripped him and threw him back to the ground.

"That's bullshit." Penhall's tone was laced with icicles. "I think you do. And you'll tell me." He levelled his gun at Gavin's chest. "Unless you'd like me to aerate you."

Gavin laughed. It was a sickening laugh. "You can't do that."

Penhall aimed at the ceiling and fired a shot. The sound split their eardrums, and ringing silence followed. "Oh, yes I can."

Gavin had flinched at the shot. Now he just glared. "I told you, I _don't_ know where he is."

"I don't believe you."

"It's the _truth_."

Penhall wanted so badly to squeeze the trigger. But there was something in Gavin's tone that was too solid to be a lie. Gavin was telling the truth. Penhall swore and pounded a fist against the floor. He stood up, but kept his gun aimed directly between Gavin's eyes. "You were the one who brought him here. How can you not know where he is?"

Gavin stared at the gun, his features betraying only a measured amount of fear. "You walked through this place. You must've seen the broken window."

Penhall swallowed roughly. Yes, he had.

"Good old Tommy did a runner," Gavin continued testily. "Jumped through the glass like a frightened rabbit." His face twitched. "He's probably bleeding to death somewhere as we speak."

Penhall's fist connected with Gavin's jaw before the boy could utter another word. "You'd better hope not, you little shit."

Just then, there was a sound from outside. A figure swayed into view and stood in the back doorway, panting and clutching the doorframe with a shaky hand. In the darkness it was impossible to see all that clearly, but Penhall didn't need light to recognize his best friend.

Hanson staggered slightly, and clutched at his ribs. "Thought… I heard your voice."

Penhall was at a loss for words, and it took him a moment to shove aside the almost uncontrollable rage he'd been feeling towards Gavin and replace it with sheer relief at seeing his partner alive. He pushed Gavin roughly back down when the youth tried to stand, and ordered him to remain there- or the room would be redecorated with his brains. "Tom," he said, blinking through the darkness. "You scared the shit out of us. God… Are you okay?"

Hanson winced, and took a shaky step forwards. Penhall reached out a hand, ready to steady his friend, and caught the bone-weary smile Hanson cast his way.

"Didn't know… whether you'd find me…" Hanson's voice was frayed beyond belief.

Penhall pushed a fragile smile, about to say that they almost hadn't.

But a single gun shot rang out against the otherwise silent night, and time, it seemed, suddenly stood still.

Penhall was confused. He watched Hanson's expression pass from relief, to shock, and then to something wavering between pain and fear.

"Tom-?"

Hanson's knees buckled, and Penhall dove to catch him. A patch of crimson bloomed between them as they sank to the ground. "_Tom_?" Penhall said again, this time more urgently.

But Hanson didn't reply.

There was the sound of laughter from outside, and then the pounding of running footsteps. Another gunshot rang out, and someone called something, but whatever they said, Penhall didn't hear it. Hanson's eyes were closed now, and there was warm blood trickling from his side.

_No_, Penhall's mind screamed. His throat worked but no words came out. He opened his mouth, but he'd forgotten how to breathe.

Gavin smirked in the darkness.

Penhall just shook his best friend. "_No!_"

* * *

_tbc_


	7. Chapter 7

_And... here's the next bit. This chap's a bit shorter, mainly angst. Yep. Angst. Almsot there with this story, just a little bit more to go. Thanks for reading :0) And have a great week._

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Birds had lifted from the trees when the gunshots had rung through the otherwise silent night. Booker stood, frozen and trembling, his arm still outstretched with his weapon aimed towards his target. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, bursting in and out through his clenched teeth as he stared down at the boy he'd just shot. He couldn't move. His ears were ringing and his mind was spinning. Over in the back doorway of the cottage two figures were silhouetted; Penhall, on his knees and bent at the middle, and Hanson, unmoving and covered in a spreading darkness that was too deep to be shadow.

Booker couldn't breathe. He'd raced up the hill as quickly and as quietly as he possibly could have. He'd pressed on, despite his aching head, and had arrived just in time to see a kid he didn't recognize draw a gun and aim it at Hanson's back. It had all happened so fast, he'd barely had time to think. There was the joy of seeing Hanson alive and well, and then his joy had been shattered as the kid had fired a shot. He'd hesitated, caught himself, snapped his weapon in the kid's direction, and fired back. The jolt of the gun discharging had been enough to rattle his heart in his chest. The kid had crumpled ungracefully, and Penhall had called something out. That's when Booker had frozen, and he stood, frozen still, in the broken darkness of the cold, inky night.

In the distance there was a sound. It sounded like a car coming up the gravel drive. Booker didn't have the energy to pay it any mind, and his fingers flinched, his throat tightening. Slowly he let his arm drop to his side and he blinked his eyes rapidly, willing them to focus. Penhall yelled something again, but Booker wasn't ready to face him yet. Awkwardly he knelt beside the kid's crumpled body and searched for a pulse. It wasn't there. In the darkness, he could just make out the kid's features. He was young, probably no more than eighteen. _He'll never get any older_. Suddenly his stomach curled and he pushed himself upright, afraid he was about to be sick. The cottage was eclipsed by headlights, and there was the sound of braking tires on loose gravel as a vehicle skidded to a halt.

Finally, Booker pulled his gaze towards the cottage. Penhall had Hanson across his lap and was rocking him slightly, pleading quietly. Booker wanted to hit rewind and try the past few minutes again. They'd found Hanson. He was meant to be safe. Booker had promised that everything would be alright. But… things weren't alright. He'd been too late. He hadn't had his partner's back. He'd been too God damned _late_… again.

He staggered. The sound of footsteps met his ears. Someone was running up the side of the cottage; more than one person. Their dark figures came into view. They had weapons, and they were yelling things. Recognition came a moment later and Booker called out to them, realizing that it was Hoffs and Fuller. Fuller ran to Hanson's side and barked orders; none of which Booker heard or understood. Hoffs darted through the doorway and emerged with a squirming Gavin in tow, whom she cuffed.

"One here, and Ioki's with the two cuffed at the car down the drive." Fuller's eyes spun to land on Booker. "That leaves one unaccounted for, if we're going to trust that there were only three." His gaze skipped past Booker, and landed on the dead boy sprawled upon the ground.

Andy had said that there were only two. Andy had lied. Booker still couldn't breathe properly, let alone find his words. His expression must have spoken for him, because Fuller simply cursed and shook his head bitterly.

"Stupid fools," he muttered, and turned back to Hanson. His tone was harsh, but his face betrayed great stress and sadness.

Booker guessed that it probably never got easier seeing kids throw their lives away like this. He staggered forward, trying to hold a straight line.

Fuller was speaking to Penhall, his voice low and his syllables abrupt. Penhall's eyes were too bright, too wide, his hands pressed awkwardly against Hanson's side. There was blood, and it was everywhere.

"Booker," Fuller said, without turning around.

Booker flinched, his ears ringing and his stomach continuing to cartwheel.

"Go to the car. Get the blanket from the trunk and spread it across the back seat."

Penhall's eyes jerked from Fuller, to Booker, and then back again. "Wait, no, we can't move him, captain-"

But Fuller ignored Penhall and turned to face Booker. He tossed a set of keys. "See if you can bring the car closer. Drive it through the bushes if you have to, just get it closer."

Booker swallowed roughly. His throat was dry. He felt like he was about to pass out and he swayed on his feet. But he nodded, and did as he was told. With one hand on the wall as a support, he shot Penhall a look and then staggered away. His emotions were battling it out inside his heart and he couldn't work out which way was up. His partner was dying, and he'd just killed some random kid. During his training he'd been taught to prioritize; to assess situations and work out what was in need of immediate attention, and what could wait. But the reality was that life was never tidy, and situations got messy. Logic told him that his friend needed help, or else he'd most likely die, but for fuck's sake, he'd just _shot _a kid. He hadn't even known the kid's name or anything about him. Now that kid was dead, and he wasn't ever coming back.

When Booker reached the front of the cottage, he doubled over and was violently sick. Once he'd regained his bearings he moved as quickly as he could to the trunk of Fuller's car and popped it open to retrieve the blanket just as he'd been ordered. His hands were numb, and his joints were seizing up. He felt like he was moving through thick water. He fell into the driver's seat and roughly shoved the key into the ignition. The day was catching up with him, and as he threw the car into gear he felt warm blood snake its way from the gash in his forehead and drip off his chin.

_Holy fucking hell I just killed a kid..._

Despite the fact that help had arrived, Booker felt more numb than ever; like the ground had been pulled from beneath him, and he was falling with no end in sight.

_This isn't happening_.

_This isn't happening._

_This isn't happening._

And Hanson had been shot. There was nothing anyone could say or do to make that right.

* * *

Fuller swallowed convulsively. He had to concentrate just to keep his hands from shaking. He had his jacket bunched under Hanson's head and was finding it difficult to ignore the blood that now covered everything.

"I can't stop the bleeding." Penhall's voice was raw and broken. "I'm trying but it just wont stop." His hands were stained with crimson, and his hunched shoulders trembled uncontrollably.

_So long as he's bleeding, his heart's still beating which means he's alive_. Fuller ran a hand through Hanson's hair, trying to be gentle but finding that his movements were stiff and jerky. "Stay with us son," he whispered, half to himself and half to his wounded officer. He swallowed again, and steeled his gaze as he met Penhall's. "He's a fighter. He hasn't given up on us yet. Just keep pressure on his wound and do the best you can."

Penhall bit his lip, his features hardening as he regarded his captain. He looked a lot younger than his years but perhaps it was the light. Fuller's eyes skipped to Hanson's pale face and he found himself thinking that his officers were all far too young for this. "He's going to be just fine," he lied, raising his voice a little.

Hoffs, who stood with Gavin a couple of feet away, shifted anxiously.

"As soon as Booker brings the car around, we'll get him to the nearest hospital." Fuller's eyes flicked to the dead boy. "Hanson's our priority. Then we'll worry about dealing with things here."

As if on cue, headlights illuminated the trees that marked the forest's edge. Booker brought the car up the side of the cottage, and the driver's door flung open almost before the vehicle had lunged to a clumsy halt.

Fuller nodded at Penhall. "This is his best chance, Doug. You know it and I know it. An ambulance wouldn't get here in time. Now we'll shift him as gently as we can and you can get in the back with him, make sure he's okay. Booker-"

Booker had already opened the vehicle's back door. His face was in shadows, but there was no mistaking his sickly pallor and the blood that streaked his cheeks.

Fuller narrowed his eyes. "Are you good to drive?"

Booker nodded unsteadily.

"Sir, we'll need Ioki's keys and the keys for the cuffs on the boys with him." Hoffs' voice was carefully controlled, her timbre hollow.

Booker reached into his pocket and tossed the keys to Fuller, who caught them one-handed. Unfortunately the motion caused Booker to lose his balance and within a heartbeat the tall officer was on his knees, dry-retching and doubled over upon the cold grass.

Hoffs cried out and Fuller cursed under his breath. Booker was _not_ okay to drive.

"Mfine…" Booker clutched at the open car door and pulled himself upright.

Hoffs ordered Gavin to sit against the wall, and then ran over to Booker; who did his best to resist her help.

Fuller forced himself to ignore them and turned his attention back to Penhall. "We're going to lift him on three. You take him under the arms. I'll grab his legs. We can make it to the car in a couple of seconds, and as soon as we're there you get into the back and pull him in as gently as you can after you. Understand?" The orders came out sharper than he'd intended, but there was no time for apologies.

Penhall nodded.

"Don't you even think about running, kid," Fuller fired at Gavin. "You're in enough trouble as it is. And you and I have a lot of talking to do."

Gavin remained as silent and as still as death itself.

_Seeing someone die will do that to you_, Fuller reflected angrily. He moved his hands so that they were under Hanson's knees. He looked to Penhall. "You ready?"

Penhall inhaled jaggedly, withdrawing his hands from pressing against Hanson's wound. He snaked them under Hanson's armpits.

"Right," Fuller grunted. "Let's do this. One… Two… Three-"

Hanson was a dead weight, but they lifted him relatively easily. They stepped quickly towards the car, careful to limit their movements lest they make Hanson's injury worse. Penhall slipped awkwardly across the backseat, pulling his friend in after him. Hanson's head lolled lifelessly as he was laid upon his back and Fuller bent his legs so that they were clear of the door.

Penhall fumbled and pressed his hands against the wound once more.

Fuller straightened and partly released the breath he'd been holding. He turned and looked at Booker. "You need to get checked out too." He nodded at Hoffs. "Change of plans. You're driving. I'll stay here with Ioki and sort these guys out."

Booker began to argue.

Hoffs cut him off. "I'll radio for back-up."

Fuller nodded. "You read my mind."

Booker pushed away from his human crutch and pinned Fuller with a desperate stare. Fuller had seen that stare before; in men who felt responsible for bad situations, who pushed themselves beyond their limits in an attempt to make things right. Booker felt responsible for this.

Fuller returned the stare. Booker was wrong.

"I'm fine, sir. I can drive, really-" Even as he said it, his eyes were glazed and unfocused.

Hoffs snagged the keys from his grip and rushed to the driver's side door. Booker reacted too late, and cursed as he swayed against the vehicle. Fuller gripped his shoulder and hastily steered him towards the passenger door.

Booker continued to fight, even as he was pushed down into his seat. The desperation still flared behind his eyes, but Fuller wasn't going to argue about his decision. If anyone should take the blame for this situation, it was him. He was the captain, after all. Taking responsibility came with the territory. _He_ was the one who should have been looking out for them all. But... now wasn't the time to think about that.

"_Sir-_" Booker's tone was pleading.

Fuller held up a silencing hand. "Enough." He nodded towards Hanson and dropped his voice. "He needs you. He was your partner on this. You stick by him. You see him through. That's the way it works."

Booker's breathing was uneven and shallow. There was sweat upon his brow. Fuller squeezed his shoulder and then looked over to Hoffs. "You make sure he gets seen to."

She nodded back.

Fuller stepped away and slammed the door. Gavin was still where they'd left him, leaning against the wall of the cottage. _Hang in there buddy_, Fuller directed his thoughts towards Hanson. _Don't you quit on us tonight_. God, they'd just got here. He'd barely had time to process the whole situation. Unfortunately life didn't always grant him the luxury of time, and sometimes he just had to hit the ground running. He steeled his shoulders, and Hoffs stepped on the gas.

The car sped across the back of the cottage and shot down the other side towards the driveway. Fuller took a long, shuddering breath, and closed his eyes briefly. He wasn't allowed to fall apart. He was the captain, after all. He spun and pinned Gavin with a look that could have withered re-enforced steel.

_What a mess. What a fucking awful mess_. His eyes fell upon the dead boy. _What a waste_. He shook his head sadly. This was far from over. He stepped towards Gavin. _What a fucking _awful_ waste. _"If my officer dies tonight, you'll be the one who takes the rap," he stated bluntly. "You think about that, and be sure to tell me whether it was worth it."

To Gavin's credit, he didn't reply.

* * *

Hoffs steered the car as quickly as she dared down the dark, tree-lined drive. As they approached Ioki and the two boys he was watching over, she darted a glance out the window, catching the startled look he threw their way. There was no time for explanations; he'd just have to wait until Fuller filled him in. With knuckles white and palms clammy against the wheel, she headed for the main road, hoping like hell she could retrace their route from the city. The nearest hospital was at least twenty minutes away, on the outskirts of the city. She was going to have to bend as many rules as possible… and hope like hell she didn't get them all killed in the process.

When they reached the road her eyes skipped to the rear vision mirror, but Penhall wasn't looking. Above the roar of the engine and the hiss of asphalt beneath the tires, she could only just make out his frantic whispers. He was bent over, with his head bowed and his face directed towards Hanson's. Every now and then he'd jerk his eyes towards the window, as if searching for an answer there, but finding none. Hoffs felt her heart fracture at the sight of him and she wanted desperately to reassure him, but she couldn't. _That's not the Penhall I know_. Penhall never looked so fragile and scared. She returned her eyes to the road, and let them burn through the cold windshield. Tears stung her lashes, but she bit her lip and blinked them away.

Beside her in the front seat, Booker was very still and silent. His head was bowed so that his chin rested upon his chest, and his shoulders were slumped, but he wasn't unconscious. Through the tangled dark mop of hair that shadowed his brows Hoffs could just make out the glint of open eyes. He was staring at the dashboard, seeming to search, like Penhall, for an answer that wasn't there. He clasped his hands in his lap, possibly trying to hide the fact that they were shaking. Hoffs wanted to reach over and touch his shoulder, to reassure herself that he was still breathing. Booker _always_ had something to say. He was always jerking off and dropping inappropriate comments at ridiculously inappropriate times. Normally he annoyed the hell out of her, but right now, she realized she'd give anything to hear him speak. His silence was disconcerting and it only added to her already sky-high anxiety. It felt like both the men she'd known had disappeared, and all she was left with were empty shells.

Her foot was heavy on the gas, and her back ached from tension. Her breathing was uneven and her heart was like a moth in a glass jar, hammering against her ribs. She felt her stomach lurch with every small rise in the road, and each set of headlights that approached swam dangerously as her eyes watered uncontrollably. If it wasn't for the sweet coppery smell of warm blood, she could have forgotten that one of her friends was bleeding to death in the back seat. She couldn't think about Hanson; thinking about him was far worse than thinking about Penhall or Booker. Hanson was dying and if she didn't get him to a hospital fast enough, he'd never wake again. The reality of that was far too heavy for her mind to comprehend. She couldn't swallow it. She _wouldn't_ swallow it. If she acknowledged it, she'd fall apart. Her eyes skipped to the mirror again, and she saw that Penhall hand one of Hanson's bloody hands clutched in his. It was a harrowing sight. She felt a lump swell painfully in her throat, and she tightened her grip on the wheel as she flung the vehicle around another bend.

_What if it had been Ioki_? She was as close to her partner as Penhall was to Hanson. She looked to Booker, and a sharp ache travelled through her chest. Hanson and Booker had been partners on this case; she couldn't imagine how Booker must be feeling. Suddenly his silence and demeanour made a lot more sense, and the air around her grew a lot heavier as she realized the weight of what he was probably carrying upon his heart.

_Hanson has to survive_, she told herself_. He just has to_.

Unfortunately, life didn't always work out the way she hoped. She'd learned that years ago. _God, this feels like a dream._ She shook her head, berating herself. No, it wasn't a dream. It was a God damned nightmare. She'd expected to find the boys, and to find them safe. She hadn't been prepared for this. _Expectations are a sure-fire way to get burned._

_Don't you dare die, you hear me. _She looked at Hanson's reflection, and bit back threatening tears.

_Don't you dare_.

* * *

Penhall felt the car around him. He felt Hoffs' eyes land upon him every time she glanced at him through the mirror. He felt the chill of the seat behind him where his sweat-soaked shirt came into contact with the cold vinyl. He felt the tightness of his throat, and the sickening twist of his gut. He felt the warm blood between his fingers as he tirelessly pressed his palms against Hanson's wound. He felt the seconds build into minutes, and each minute slip by, unforgivingly. He felt his helplessness grow with every shuddering breath his best friend managed to take. He felt exhausted, scared, and numb beyond belief. He knew and understood his situation, but he didn't want to believe in it.

_You can't go_, he thought shakily. Hell, he was willing to beg and plead with God if he had to. He was willing to believe that God even existed. _You can't go. I wont let you. _He stared down at Hanson's deathly pale face; it was white, nearly transparet, and rapidly losing its warmth. Penhall's throat constricted further and he squeezed his eyes closed. _You're not allowed to quit like this._ His heart missed several beats. _We aren't saying goodbye_. _Not like this_.

He was aware of the safety belt digging into his ribs. He was aware of the way his boots were twisted under the front seat. He could see Booker's reflection in the passenger window every time a car shot past. He saw the expression painted across Booker's pale face, and the hunch of his shoulders. He could see the glow of the city's lights in the distance, shimmering upon the horizon, and the moon smudged clumsily against the partly cloudy sky. It was like an eye, and it watched them. It watched them without blinking, despite the fact that they were hovering dangerously close to losing someone they cared about so much.

Normally, Penhall would have been angry. Earlier he'd been angry, and he'd wanted to smash something; smash someone. Now he was just tired. The fight had left him. He was being assaulted by memories; of times he'd spent with Hanson, of the first case they'd ever worked together, of the last conversation they'd had and the things they'd planned for this coming weekend. He felt robbed of his happiness, and ripped raw with anxiety. He felt cheated by life; like he'd been enjoying a film and the power had just cut out. He closed his eyes again. Something was broken, and he didn't know how to fix it. He couldn't stop Hanson's bleeding. He was trying so hard, but nothing he did seemed to count for anything.

They'd been on the road for fifteen minutes now. The city was drawing nearer. He leaned close to Hanson's face again. "Just a little way to go buddy, just a little further now, and then we'll be there." The darkness outside was beginning to give way to the occasional house and well-lit street. It wouldn't be long and they'd be at the hospital. "Just hang in there okay, I'm not gonna let you give up this easily, not when you owe me a drink." He squeezed a fragile smile, and bit his lip to stop it trembling.

_He'll be okay. He'll be okay. He'll be okay_…

The hospital was only around five minutes away. He pressed harder against Hanson's wound. The blood flow seemed to be slowing down. He shot another splintered smile at his best friend. They passed under a streetlight, and the glow fell over Hanson's shadowy face. Hanson's lips looked slightly blue, his features more sunken. Penhall caught himself. Something was different. Something was wrong. Jerkily, he brought a shaky finger to rest under Hanson's nose.

_Oh God_… He felt his heart plunge.

"Oh God, _no-_" This time he said it aloud, and Hoffs' eyes darted to meet his.

_Nonononononononononono-_

As subtle as a gentle breeze growing still, Hanson had stopped breathing.

* * *

_tbc_


	8. Chapter 8

_And, finally, here's the last chapter..._

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

_**Five days later...**_

Booker stood aside from the group of mourners, shadowed by the towering maple he leaned against. Heavy clouds rolled overhead, and a haze of drizzle blanketed the city. The cemetery was on a hill, and if the day had been clear the view would have been faultless. Drops of water showered down upon him every time the breeze blew, and there was a definite bite to the air that promised a long, cold winter.

Not many had gathered for Simon's funeral. Those who'd made the effort were hard-faced and huddled under blooming, black umbrellas. There was a tall boy, dressed in a shabby suit and cuffed at the wrists. Two officers flanked his sides. Booker guessed that the boy must be Tyson, Simon's older brother, let out from prison for the occasion.

The priest said a handful of words, and then the mourners leaned down to throw dirt upon the coffin. They took it in turns, and when Tyson's turn came up he stiffly completed the task, despite his cuffs. Booker inhaled jaggedly and pushed his hands further into his coat pockets. The remaining leaves on the tree above him clung to their branches, and shuddered as the wind tried to coax them to the ground.

The events of the past weekend were still fresh in his mind. Each time he closed his eyes he was treated to a brilliant display of memories far too vivid for his liking. He recalled the car trip to the hospital, and could still feel each bump in the road. He remembered exactly how his heart had crashed to a halt the moment Penhall had told them that Hanson had stopped breathing. Hoffs had screamed them right to the doors of the ER, and had flung herself from the vehicle to find some help. Booker had watched uselessly as Penhall had breathed for their friend, but Hanson's eyes had remained closed, despite Penhall's best efforts. The rest was a blur. Help had come. He'd been hauled from the car alongside Hanson, and rushed away.

Shakily he raised a hand to the gauze that now covered the wound upon his forehead. Cold drizzle stung his cheeks and caught in his lashes. _Life is so damn fragile, _he thought as he turned his eyes away from the mourners and fixed them upon the remnants of a spider's web shivering as it flapped in a small hollow of the tree's trunk. _You're born, and then you die_. _But what the hell comes in between_? Sadly he withdrew his badge from his pocket and turned it over in his palm, failing to focus upon it and instead staring beyond it to the soggy ground and the thin grass struggling to grow around the tree's roots.

Hanson had pulled through; everything would be okay. They'd caught the bad guys. _But one of the bad guys is dead_. He lifted his eyes to the group of mourners again. _I killed him_. Very briefly his grip tensed around his badge. He waited a moment, and then shoved it back into his pocket, out of sight.

He hadn't been back to the hospital since he'd checked himself out. The doctors had revived Hanson, and had stabilized him somehow. Booker had stared through the smudgy glass of Hanson's room until he'd been unable to stare any more. Penhall had been hunched beside the bed, and Hoffs had said something about Fuller and Ioki coming down as quickly as they could. Booker had wanted to stay, but he'd needed so desperately to get away and pull himself together. Hanson was okay, and that was all that had mattered. He'd left the hospital despite being asked to stay in for observation, and had taken a cab home.

He shuddered with the memory of that night. When he'd closed himself in his apartment, the flashbacks had come like an army of uninvited guests. They'd driven him to the brink of madness and then he'd teetered on the edge before falling off. He'd spent the remainder of the night curled in the corner of his shower; frozen, naked, and sobbing like an inconsolable child. He'd been desperately alone, and yet, he'd never needed to be so alone in all his life.

Now… now he just felt wrong. He felt like something within him was broken. Fuller had come by his apartment and had offered him two weeks leave, and a session (or more) with a councellor, if he wanted to take it. But Booker had brushed the concern off. _I'm fine_, he'd lied, knowing how exhausted he probably sounded. Fuller had squeezed his shoulder then. "Take some time off. I don't want to see you back at work yet." Booker had looked away. "Go see Hanson, Dennis." That was Monday. Today was Wednesday. Booker still hadn't had a full night's sleep.

He heaved a shaky sigh. The funeral was over. The mourners that had gathered to say goodbye to Simon were beginning to depart. Booker watched them as they trudged through the muddy grass towards waiting vehicles, their shoulders hunched and their umbrellas down over their faces. Perhaps Fuller was right. Perhaps he should go see Hanson.

Raising charcoal eyes to bruised sky, he followed the movement of heavy clouds. The drizzle had become rain, and the tree above him barely provided any shelter. Two men were shovelling dirt into the grave, and from where he was standing, Booker could just hear the scrapes and thuds of their metal shovels against the earth. A line from a book came to him. '_Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on_.' It was from _The Great Gatsby_, which he'd been made to read back when he was at school. His mind sure did pull out some random thoughts sometimes. He looked towards the grave once more.

One of the men glanced over at him, pausing briefly. _Do they even known who they're burying_? Booker watched them through the rain. Of course they didn't. _I'm responsible for the hole they're filling._ It was a sad and hollow thought. Slowly, he turned on his heel, and walked away.

* * *

_Penhall lurched forward as the car skidded to an abrupt halt. Hoffs had been yelling at him the whole time, but although he'd heard her, he hadn't listened to a word she'd said. Now she tumbled from the car, running into the ER and calling for help. Booker was still in the front seat, struggling to turn around. But Penhall wasn't listening to a word he said either. There was just Hanson, and Hanson wasn't breathing. Penhall's fingers pinched his friend's nose and he bent over, breathing and pounding Hanson's chest. There was blood everywhere. No matter how the situation turned out, Penhall knew right then and there that he'd have crimson nightmares for a long time to come._

_Doctors came. They fell upon the car like ants upon a carcass. There was a woman with large glasses, and she was asking Penhall to trust her. "Let us take him, come on, we'll take care of him now." There were hands, and they were trying to take Hanson away. At first Penhall resisted, but then he realized that if he didn't let go, Hanson would die. The doctors were there to help; he had to let them help. His legs were numb from having Hanson across his lap. When he was able to step out of the car, he wobbled and nearly fell. Hoffs gripped him around the shoulders, and beside them Booker was hauled from his seat and laid upon a gurney. Hanson was carried away, and Penhall followed as far as he could, but then Hanson disappeared through a swinging door and Penhall was asked to remain behind. "Like hell I will," he argued. But Hoffs gripped his hand, and steered him towards a row of plastic seats. She gently told him to sit down. "Please," she begged, just like the doctors had. "Please sit down."_

_The night went on forever. The chairs grew more and more uncomfortable. Penhall lost his patience. Hoffs couldn't stop him when he cursed and swore and demanded to be told what was going on. He punched a wall, and then kicked a vending machine. An old doctor with silver hair ordered him to calm down. "We're doing all we can, just sit tight, please." Penhall stormed out the front door, blinked wildly at the arriving patients and ambulances, and then realized that he wasn't acting rationally. He returned to Hoffs. She covered his hand with hers. She was shaking, but she hid it well. Penhall felt ashamed. He wanted to trust the doctors but he was so scared. Other people in the waiting room watched him sadly. They were waiting too, and Penhall swallowed painfully as he leaned stiffly back in his seat._

_Just after midnight they heard about Booker. His head had been stitched up and he'd been given drugs to help him rest. He'd be kept in for observation, and was expected to wake soon. Hoffs went to see him but Penhall decided to remain where he was. "I'll be back in a moment," she told him. She'd spoken to Fuller; he and Ioki would come as soon as they were able. Penhall watched Hoffs disappear through the swinging doors and wondered whether it was bad that he didn't actually care about Booker. The only thing he cared about, more than anything, was being told that Hanson would be alright._

_One o'clock, two o'clock, two-thirty came around and Hoffs had been back for a while. The waiting room filled, then emptied, then filled again as people rushed in and rushed out. Some of them were bloody. Some of them were anxious and wide-eyed. Some of them screamed and kicked walls. Penhall wondered how the hospital staff managed to work in such an environment. His job could be bad sometimes, but it wasn't nearly this intense. Not on this level. He'd rubbed his eyes so many times that he felt like they would bleed. Finally, after what seemed like forever, a doctor appeared and called for Hanson's friends or family._

_Penhall was up off his chair and across the room in a heartbeat, wanting, and not wanting, to know how his night might end. The doctor took a deep breath, and then said very quietly, "It was touch and go. He's lost a lot of blood. He's in the ICU, but he's stable." Hoffs let out a small sound and jerked Penhall into an embrace. Hanson was going to be okay. Penhall released the breath he'd been holding. The doctor barely flinched. "We'll just have to wait and see how he goes during the night." He regarded the two officers. "But he's a strong young man, and it looks like he's going to make it." Penhall felt his throat go tight, and a painful lump swell and choke his words. He asked whether they could see Hanson. The doctor said they would be able to eventually, but they'd have to be patient. Penhall nodded, and then returned to his seat. This time, he knew, he wouldn't mind the wait…_

Penhall blinked open his eyes. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He was slumped uncomfortably in a chair beside Hanson's bed; the same chair he'd been living in for the past five days now. The magazine he'd been reading had fallen to the floor, and he leaned down to retrieve it. He'd bought it, along with a whole stack of others, for Hanson to read when he was feeling a bit better.

Monitors beeped, and lights flashed on various machines. Dim light seeped into the room from a crack in the partly closed blinds. Hanson was doing really well, breathing on his own and healing slowly but surely. He'd woken a couple of times, but hadn't been able to say much. Penhall was getting used to the one-sided conversations, although it would be good when they could have a real conversation again. _I'm getting sick of my own voice, _he admitted sadly. Muscles protesting, he pushed himself up from his chair and crossed the room to the small, rectangular window.

The day was miserable. It mirrored his mood exactly. He stared through the foggy glass at the rain falling from the heavy sky. It was early afternoon, but the lack of sunlight made it seem a lot later. He was tired, and run-down. It was difficult to eat or sleep properly when your best friend was lying in a hospital bed. He traced a smiley face in the condensation on the cold glass and watched cars pull into and out of the hospital's car park. Water gushed down a drainpipe to the right of the window, and spewed out the bottom into a leaf-clogged drain that barely served its purpose.

He let the blind drop back into place, and returned to his chair. Hanson's chest rose and fell methodically, and Penhall's stomach turned as he recalled the handful of minutes in which Hanson's breathing had stopped. _Ten years_, he decided stiffly. _That's how long has been shaved off my life as a result of all this_.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows against the metal rail of Hanson's bed. Hanson's face was pale, spattered with angry bruises, cuts and scrapes. He looked smaller, somehow. His body was shrunken against the mattress. Tubes and wires attached him to the machines around him and one of his arms was cocooned in a fat bandage. Penhall sighed and closed his eyes. _This was way too close, buddy_. _Way too close_… They'd gotten incredibly lucky. Even the doctors had said that it was a miracle Hanson had survived. _Good thing you're stubborn_. Penhall reopened his eyes. There was a sound from the doorway. Awkwardly, he turned around.

Booker was standing there. His face was as pale as Hanson's.

"Jeez, look you the way that I feel," Penhall groaned by way of greeting. This was the first time he'd seen Booker since the weekend.

Booker's dark eyes dropped to the floor and a very small splinter of emotion flickered across his features. His long coat was wet with rain, and water dripped off his unruly mop of hair. "How's he doing?" He asked quietly.

Penhall stared hard at the tall officer. Booker made eye contact, and then pulled his gaze away.

"The docs say he's doing well," Penhall told him, easing his stare.

Booker nodded. "That's good."

A fragile silence descended. Penhall shifted in his chair. He wasn't quite sure how he was feeling towards Booker after the events of the weekend. He knew that what had happened to Hanson hadn't been Booker's fault, but the need to blame someone or something still sat heavily within him. He'd clashed with Booker from day one, so Booker was the obvious choice. But…

That wasn't exactly fair.

Booker had played a large part in finding and rescuing Hanson. If it hadn't been for Booker, they probably would have been burying Hanson today. Penhall sighed, and dropped his head.

"I just thought I'd check how he was." Booker made a move to leave.

Penhall stopped him. "How was the funeral?"

For a moment Booker appeared startled, as if he was surprised that Penhall knew that he'd gone. Hastily he regained his composure. "It was small," he replied evenly. Penhall waited, but Booker didn't say anything more. There was a small puddle of water upon the scuffed floor around Booker's boots. Booker followed Penhall's gaze, and quirked a slight smile. "The weather was miserable."

Penhall noted that Booker's hands were shoved deep into his pockets. He was probably freezing. "You look like you could use a stiff drink." Booker didn't reply. Penhall pushed himself up from his chair. "I can't get us whisky, but I can get us a cup of coffee." He stepped towards the doorway. "That is, if you'd like one?"

Booker wasn't one to accept much from anyone. He was stubborn, just like Hanson. Penhall didn't give him a chance to reply. "Sit," he ordered. "Keep an eye on him while I'm gone."

Booker held up a hand, ready to make an excuse.

Penhall cut him off. "If he wakes up, it'd be nice for him to have someone familiar nearby." He ran a hand through his hair. "Besides, I need some fresh air."

Booker's face lost a little more colour. His eyes skipped away. "I don't think I'm someone he'll want to see."

Penhall took note of the hidden message, and then dismissed it just as quickly. "Sit," he said again, this time a little more firmly. He got a hand behind Booker and pushed him towards the bed. Booker fell into the chair with a soggy thud. Penhall turned and went to exit the room. "You might _think_ you know everything," he said. "But the truth is; you don't."

Booker remained silent.

"Stop being a jerk and sit here a while. I'll be back in a moment. If you're not here when I get back, I'll get angry."

If Booker replied, Penhall didn't hear it. Satisfied, he stepped into the corridor and walked away.

* * *

Hanson was in a strange place. He was aware of certain things, but not of others. He knew that he was in a bed, in a strange room. He knew that he'd come very close to dying, but he wasn't sure how.

There was dull, grey light surrounding him. He was sleeping, but it was a sleep devoid of dreams. He'd opened his eyes a couple of times and had been surprised to see Penhall sitting beside him. He'd tried to talk to his friend, but infuriatingly his mouth hadn't been able to form the words. It was like his brain was still working but his body refused to co-operate. He was frustrated, but at the same time frustration required more energy than he seemed to possess.

The last thing he remembered was being in a forest. He wasn't sure how he'd got from the forest to here; his sense of time was gone and there were pieces of his memory missing. He could have been in the forest days ago, or even weeks. There was no telling how long he'd been lying in this bed. He clawed at reality, trying to find a way out of the thick, grey nothingness. But each time he caught at something, he slipped and was pulled away again. It was like being stuck down a well without a rope to climb out again.

Finally the grey curtain opened slightly, and he peered out through heavy lashes at the figure now seated beside him. It took him a moment to piece together who he was seeing, but soon enough he recognized Booker's face. Booker was staring at the floor, completely unaware that Hanson was watching him. Hanson tried to move his mouth, but again, infuriatingly, no sound came out.

_So you survived_… The thought floated like a feather through his jumbled mind. Hanson tried to stay in the moment, but his eyes began to sag closed again. _That's good… _He and Booker had a lot to talk about. When he was well again, Hanson hoped they'd have a long chat. His eyes closed completely. He drifted away into greyness again.

He wanted to say thankyou. Booker had got help and had come after him, after all. That meant more than Hanson could say. 'Thankyou' didn't seem like enough, but it was all that he could offer. _One word as payment for my life_.

With any luck, Booker would understand.

* * *

Fuller massaged his forehead and glared at his phone. It hadn't stopped ringing all week. Questions, reports, more questions, and more reports- a case wasn't closed when the bad guys were in cuffs; it took much longer to tie up all the loose ends. In this case, a kid had been shot as a result of the actions of one of his officers. Things were messy, and there would be a thorough investigation. _Protocol_, he thought disapprovingly. _What a fucking joke_. His superiors were giving him a pounding, drilling him and grilling him for answers. But they were a bunch of men and women who sat in their offices all day. Most of them had no idea what it was like to be out in the field.

The chapel was quiet. Rain pounded the high windows. Sal was fretting about the fact that the roof had sprung a leak. Hoffs and Ioki were desperately trying to finish up their daily reports so that they could head over to the hospital to see Hanson. Fuller wouldn't go over there today; he had too much work to do. He'd stopped by yesterday, and the day before, and had had a brief conversation with Hanson's mother. She was an amazing lady. She'd fixed him with a solid stare and had thanked him for taking care of her son. Fuller was familiar with the story of how Hanson's father had died, and so her words meant a lot to him. "His friends had a bigger hand in getting him here," he'd admitted. "If it wasn't for them, things could have turned out very differently." She'd nodded, understanding. Things _could_ have gone differently, but they hadn't. "There's no use dwelling on the 'what ifs', Mister Fuller." She'd smiled thinly, and he'd managed to squeeze a smile in return. No, that was right.

Now he leaned back in his chair and let his eyes wander about his office. He recalled the first day he'd sat at this desk, and the thoughts that had tumbled through his mind. He'd had no idea how he was supposed to lead a group such as this; he'd looked out through his doorway and had seen a bunch of kids throwing balls around and flying paper planes. Hanson and Penhall had been in the centre, acting like two delinquent teenagers. Fuller had decided right then and there that the two of them wouldn't last a week. He'd seen them as kids instead of adults. But… time had proven him wrong, hadn't it? Penhall and Hanson were two of the best officers he had. He was proud of the work that they did. And, if he was honest with himself, he couldn't think of anyone better suited for their jobs.

The phone rang again, but this time he ignored it. The sound bounced around the room and screamed for him to respond. A small part of him smiled as he continued to remain where he was. _Let them wait_, he thought stubbornly. _Surely they can wait just a moment longer_. It was no doubt somebody else wanting to chew him out for the events of the weekend. He wasn't in the mood to have another conversation about that just yet. _Now who's acting like a teenager_, his mind chided. He promptly dismissed the thought, and listened as the phone rang out.

When silence had returned, he leaned forward against his desk. There was a small mountain range of paperwork bordering the clear patch upon which he rested his elbows. The chapel seemed strange and empty without Hanson, Penhall and Booker. His thoughts snagged upon Booker, and he wondered whether his newest officer had gone to see Hanson yet. _I hope so_. He hadn't heard from Penhall today, but no doubt he was stationed beside Hanson's bed like he had been every other day. _The three of them are as stubborn as each other_. He reached out and caught hold of a pen that had been hiding between his phone and a stack of files. He sat up again, preparing to do more work.

The lid wouldn't come off the pen. He tried again, but it was jammed. A closer inspection revealed a small amount of dried glue around the sides. He stared at it a long while, frowning. And then his face broke into a weary smile.

_You make mistakes_. _You learn from them_.

The pen clattered into the trash and he pulled open his drawer to search for a new one. As annoying as those boys could be sometimes, he was looking forward to having them back again. _Even Penhall, and his annoying pranks_. He found another pen and this time pulled the lid off easily.

_This place is too damn quiet otherwise_.

* * *

**_A/N: Well, I hope you enjoyed this story. I'm sorry it took a while but I'm happy to have finally __posted the last chapter! It's been great fun to write, so I hope you got something out of reading it. Thanks again to everyone who left comments along the way. Take care :)_**


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